THREE  PLAYS 
OF  THE  ARGENTINE 

Juan  Moreira 

Santos  Vega 

The  Witches'  Mountain 

Edited  with  an    Introduction  by 
EDWARD  HALE  BIERSTADT 


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THREE  PLAYS  OF  THE  ARGENTINE 


THREE  PLAYS 
OF   THE    ARGENTINE 


JUAN  MOREIRA 

SANTOS  VEGA 

THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  SPANISH  BY 

JACOB  S.  FASSETT,  JR. 


EDITED,  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

EDWARD  HALE  BIERSTADT 


NEW  YORK 
DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 


[The  plays  in  this  volume  are  fully  protected,  and  all 
rights  in  their  production,  either  for  the  stage  or  for 
moving  pictures  are  held  by  Edward  Hale  Bierstadt. 
Application  must  bo  made  to  Mr.  Bierstadt  through 
the  publishers  by  those  desiring  to  use  the  plays.  J 


Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A, 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

IN  LOVE   AND   GRATITUDE 

E.  H.  B. 


CONTENTS 


^ 

PREFACE T  vii 

INTRODUCTION xi 

JUAN  MOREIRA 1 

SANTOS  VEGA ?    .    .  21 

THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN -.    .    .  77 

APPENDIX  A *    .  131 

APPENDIX  B 138 

APPENDIX  C 142 

APPENDIX  D 148 


PREFACE 

IT  is  my  desire  in  this  volume  to  give  an  outline,  somewhat 
rough  it  may  be,  of  the  course  the  drama  has  taken  in  that 
great  country  of  the  pampas  to  which  our  sympathies  have 
so  often  inclined  only  to  be  frustrated  by  our  ignorance. 
No  possible  pretense  is  made  that  this  is  a  complete  and 
detailed  history  of  the  dramatic  literature  of  the  Argentine. 
For  the  present,  however,  it  will  serve. 

My  greatest  emphasis  I  have  placed  upon  the  dramas 
criollos,  not  because  they  represent  the  climax  of  the  dra- 
matic art  in  the  Argentine,  but  because  they  are  possessed 
of  certain  distinct  characteristics  which  render  them  peculiar 
in  the  study  of  the  drama  in  general.  They  are  a  folk  drama 
in  the  most  perfect  sense,  and  as  such  the  consideration  of 
their  inception  and  their  further  career  is  not  without  im- 
portance. They  are  interesting  not  only  in  themselves,  but 
even  more  so  in  the  deductions  which  they  suggest.  The 
Argentine  has  developed  beyond  them;  they  are  no  longer 
popular,  and  the  least  sign  of  their  revival  is  greeted  with 
lamentations,  for  the  silk-hatted  gentleman  of  the  Avenue 
is  not  always  proud  of  the  fact  that  his  youth  was  bare- 
headed. Moreover,  there  is  a  natural  tendency  on  the  part 
of  all  individuals  and  of  all  nations  to  develop  toward  a 
more  sophisticated  form  of  expression.  It  is  a  matter  of  pride, 
of  self-respect,  of  one's  relationship  with  other  individuals 
and  other  nations.  There  is  certainly  nothing  criminal  in 
short  trousers,  but  the  boy  who  is  kept  in  them  overlong 
suffers  from  a  natural  embarrassment.  Hence  this  book  is 
merely  a  "trail -breaker"  in  what  has  been,  to  most  of  us,  an 


viii  PREFACE 

almost  unknown  forest.  If  it  stimulates  another,  either 
through  the  interest  it  arouses  in  him,  or  the  irritation  it 
causes  him,  to  turn  the  trail  into  a  highway,  it  will  have  served 
its  purpose. 

I  wish  here  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  a  number  of 
friends  who  have  been  most  kind  in  aiding  me  in  this  work, 
the  genesis  of  which  was  in  the  many  interesting  talks  I 
had  with  Spring  Byington  Chandler,  and  her  husband,  Roy 
Chandler,  whose  theatrical  experience  in  the  Argentine  was 
of  the  utmost  service  to  me.  It  was  through  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Chandler  that  I  first  came  in  touch  with  Dr.  David  Peiia, 
whose  courtesy  and  patience  have  been  inexhaustible,  and 
who  has  supplied  me  with  much  data.  Mr.  John  Garrett 
Underhill  has  helped  me,  not  only  with  material,  but  with 
advice,  and  most  of  all  in  directing  me  to  my  translator, 
Jacob  S.  Fassett,  Jr.,  whose  work  will  speak  for  itself  in 
these  pages.  Mr.  Archer  Huntington,  good  genius  of  the 
Hispanic  Society  of  America,  has  been  generous  in  aiding  me, 
as  has  my  friend  Barrett  H.  Clark.  For  the  rest,  if  I  do  not 
mention  them  each  specifically,  it  is  not  because  I  have  for- 
gotten or  because  I  do  not  appreciate  fully  their  contribu- 
tions, but  only  because  the  list  would  be  too  long  for  so  short 
a  book  to  carry  gracefully. 

I  cannot  hope  that  all  my  friends  in  the  Argentine  or  in 
the  United  States  will  agree  with  me  in  the  opinions  I  have 
stated,  the  deductions  I  have  made,  or  in  the  material  I 
have  selected.  To  the  first  I  can  only  say  that  if  I  have  erred 
it  has  certainly  been  through  no  desire  to  belittle  the  real 
achievements  of  the  great  republic  of  the  south,  and  the  latter 
I  can  only  remind  that  all  criticism  and  all  selection  are  a 
matter  of  personal  opinion.  I  have  felt  that  in  a  day  and 
age  when  so  much  that  was  false,  superficial,  and  tawdry 
held  the  stage  it  would  be  not  only  instructive  and  in- 
teresting, but  a  real  inspiration  as  well,  to  blow  the  haze 


PREFACE  ix 

of  time  from  before  a  drama  as  refreshing  and  as  naive  as  the 
proverbial  barefoot  boy.  There  is  no  question  in  my  mind  but 
that  Penrod  would  like  these  plays,  and  that  they  would 
create  a  real  illusion  for  him.  And  in  our  attitude  toward 
any  art  the  more  nearly  we  can  come  to  Penrod's  point  of 
view  the  better. 

E.  H.  B. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Drama  of  the  Argentine 

IT  is  only  within  the  last  few  years  that  we  have  come  to 
realize  how  appalling  and  how  sweeping  our  ignorance  of 
artistic,  social,  and  commercial  conditions  in  South  America  is. 
Properly  to  understand  and  to  appreciate  any  one  of  these 
phases  it  is  highly  desirable  that  we  have  some  knowledge 
of  the  other  two.  If  one  is  entering  upon  a  relationship  of 
any  type  with  a  man  of  a  strange  country,  it  is  obviously 
useful  to  know  something  of  the  manner  in  which  he  conducts 
himself  in  the  life  about  him;  and  surely  there  is  no  better 
exponent  of  the  social  structure  of  a  people  than  is  evidenced 
by  their  art.  Our  interest  in  these  questions,  in  this  par- 
ticular instance,  need  not  be  that  which  is  prompted  either 
by  mere  curiosity  or  the  desire  for  commercial  benefit.  It 
is  not  the  necessity  of  the  scholar  to  know  for  the  sake  of 
knowing,  but,  strange  as  it  may  appear  to  many  of  us,  we 
shall  not  be  wrong  in  basing  our  interest  upon  an  appreciative 
utilitarianism,  a  desire  to  know  and  to  respect  a  thing  or  a 
people  who  may  be  able  to  tell  us  something  worth  knowing, 
who  may  have  developed  some  phase  of  life  to  a  higher  point 
than  we  ourselves.  Hence  it  is  my  desire  here  to  lift  the 
veil  a  little  and  to  show  something  of  the  culture  of  the 
southern  continent  by  outlining,  rather  briefly  and  roughly, 
the  development  of  the  drama  in  the  Argentine  Republic, 
for,  so  far  as  I  know,  nowhere  else  in  South  America  has  this 
art  progressed  in  so  interesting  and  important  a  manner,  t 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

The  Argentine  Republic  has  been  in  existence  only  a  very 
little  more  than  one  hundred  years,  and  at  least  forty  of  these 
have  been  passed  in  a  most  inorganic  state.  The  progress 
made  in  the  other  sixty  has  been  no  less  than  astounding. 
It  was  in  1816  that  the  great  revolution  took  place  under  the 
leadership  of  the  famous  San  Martin,  which  freed  the  Argen- 
tine forever  from  the  Spanish  rule,  but  it  was  nearly  1880 
before  the  country  began  to  show  unmistakable  evidence  of 
having  a  drama  of  its  own.  There  had  been  drama  before 
this,  it  is  true,  but  it  had  been  either  that  left  by  the  Spaniard 
or  a  native  product  of  small  interest.  It  is  said,  however, 
that  there  was  Argentine  drama  as  far  back  as  1747,  during 
the  governorship  of  Juan  Andonaegui,  to  celebrate  the 
elevation  to  the  throne  of  Spain  of  Fernando  VI.  Records, 
moreover,  show  that  the  first  theater  was  established  in 
Buenos  Aires  by  the  Viceroy,  V6rtiz.  It  was  called  La 
Rancherfa,  and  in  1817  there  was  formed  in  the  same  city 
the  Sociedad  del  Buen  Gusto,  the  Society  of  Good  Taste. 
This  was  intended  to  foster  Argentine  drama,  and  the  first 
play  produced  under  its  auspices  was  Cornelia  Berorquia, 
which  was  advertised  as  *'a  masterpiece  by  one  of  our 
compatriots."  Alfred  Coester  in  his  book  entitled  The 
Literary  History  of  Spanish  America  remarks  as  follows: 
''The  same  hyperbolical  and  declamatory  rhetoric  made 
popular  two  dramas  by  Varela,  Dido  and  Argia,  written  for 
production  before  the  Sociedad  del  Buen  Gusto  in  Buenos 
Aires.  These  were  in  some  respects  the  most  original  dramas 
produced  ur.uer  the  influence  of  that  society  for  the  promotion 
of  the  drama.  In  1823  the  tirades  in  Dido  created  enthusiasm 
for  their  apt  references  to  the  political  situation.  The  same 
was  true  of  Argia  a  year  later.  This  play  was  based  on 
Alfieri's  Antigone,  while  Dido  sometimes  followed  Virgil  word 
for  word." 

About  this  time,  however,  certain  dramatic  works  came  into 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

being  which  were  distinctly  national  in  character,  though 
still  retaining  in  some  degree  the  influence  of  their  Spanish 
forebears.  This  was  the  first  real  flash  of  light,  and  it  must 
be  confessed  that  the  plays  of  this  period  which  are  remem- 
bered attained  success  more  on  account  of  the  names  of  the 
authors  than  because  of  any  merit  of  their  own.  Such  were 
the  first  works  of  Don  Martin  Coronado:1  Rosa  Blanco, — 
Luz  de  Luna  y  Luz  de  Incendio.  One  might  mention  also 
Los  Carpani  by  Dona  Eduarda  Mansilla  de  Garcia,  various 
works  by  Don  Emilio  Onrubia,  and  Que  (Lira,  la  Sociedad  by 
Dr.  David  Pefia,  who,  at  the  time  of  writing  it,  was  not  more 
than  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  old.  It  may  be  said  here 
that  few  people  have  exercised  a  more  potent  and  beneficent 
influence  upon  the  later  drama  of  the  Argentine  than  has 
Dr.  Pefia  during  his  long  years  of  service. 

For  several  years  after  this  short  epoch  the  drama  decayed 
gradually  until  it  finally  took  a  most  singular  and  novel  form. 
There  came  into  being  the  dramas  criollos,  the  Creole  or 
native  drama,  and  this  development  was  of  so  unique  a 
nature  that  it  demands  a  more  detailed  consideration. 

The  dramas  which  preceded  the  dramas  criollos  were,  or 
purported  to  be,  of  a  distinctly  literary  character,  and  therein 
lay  their  weakness;  they  were  more  literary  than  dramatic, 
and  more  foreign  than  colloquial  in  interest.  Now  came  a 
time  when  the  drama  was  to  spring  from  the  soil,  indigenous 
in  expression,  content,  and  in  form.  The  earlier  drama  has 
exerted  little  or  no  influence  upon  the  people  as  a  whole;  it 
was  more  or  less  a  class  product,  but  now  was  to  come  a 
drama  "of  the  people"  in  the  strictest  sense,  one  possessing 
little  literary  value,  but  one  which  was  rich  in  color,  action, 
and  in  sympathetic  appeal.  Before  taking  these  plays  up 
specially  it  may  be  well  to  devote  our  attention  for  a  mo- 
ment to  indigenous  drama  as  such,  thus  making  sure  of  our 
1  See  Note  A  in  Appendix. 


xlv  INTRODUCTION 

''approach"  before  we  endeavor  to  ''hole  out"  on  the 
green. 

The  wide  and  well-justified  popularity  of  the  contemporary 
Irish  drama  has  reopened  several  questions  of  distinct  interest, 
one  of  which  bears  directly  on  this  theme.  That  is,  what  is 
indigenous  drama  and  where  can  it  be  found?  On  the  face 
of  it  this  would  seem  simple,  but  it  is  not  so  in  reality.  That 
which  is  truly  indigenous  is  peculiar  to  a  country,  partaking 
as  little  as  possible  of  anything  outside  of  that  country,  either 
directly  or  indirectly.  Thus  an  indigenous  drama  in  the 
absolute  sense  would  mean  a  drama  the  content,  expression, 
and  form  of  which  were  of  a  certain  country,  and  of  that 
country  alone;  and,  as  the  relationship  between  the  drama 
and  the  theater  is  of  so  intimate  a  nature  we  might  even 
assume  a  like  unique  quality  on  the  part  of  the  stage.  Hence 
we  can  say  at  once  that  there  does  not  exist  in  all  probability 
an  indigenous  drama  in  the  absolute  sense.  \Ve  may  well 
thank  Heaven  for  it,  for  such  excessive  peculiarity  would  be 
important  merely  as  a  curiosity,  and  would  exercise  no  in- 
fluence whatever  on  the  drama  as  a  whole :  it  could  not,  for 
it  would  bear  only  a  relationship  by  courtesy  to  it  and,  con- 
sidered exactly,  could  hardly  even  be  called  drama  at  all.  The 
absolute  as  usual  destroys  itself  in  its  disregard  of  the  relative. 

The  Irish  drama  is  distinct  in  content  and  in  expression, 
but  in  form  it  is  entirely  conventional.  This  is,  of  course, 
not  said  in  criticism,  but  merely  to  point  a  fact.  I  have 
taken  the  Irish  as  my  example  simply  because  I  know  of  no 
more  indigenous  drama  to  be  found  in  western  civilization, 
with  one  exception.  The  Irish  drama  employs  Gaelic  or  a 
dialect  for  its  expression,  and  both  of  these  are  indigenous 
in  the  most  strict  sense.  Its  content  is  assuredly  peculiar 
in  the  highest  degree  to  the  country  of  its  origin.  More  than 
this  can  be  said  of  no  people — I  except  the  Oriental  races — 
with  one  exception.  We  may  exclude  the  expression  as 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

being  largely  a  question  of  language.  Isolated  examples  can 
easily  be  found  in  all  countries  which  will  fulfil  the  condition 
of  content,  but  it  is  not  with  isolated  examples  we  are  dealing, 
but  with  a  school  ^r  type  of  drama  extending  over  a  whole 
country  for  an  appreciable  period  of  time.  Drama  of  the 
country,  by  the  country,  and  for  the  country  expresses  it 
succinctly.  America,  England,  France,  Germany,  and  Scan- 
dinavia, none  of  them  throw  any  light,  except  a  dark  one, 
on  the  problem.  There  is  but  one  country  which  does,  and 
that  is  the  Argentine. 

The  dramas  criollos  are  usually  knoAvn  to  us  of  the  north, 
when  they  are  known  at  all,  as  gaucho  plays.  This  is  but 
natural,  for  at  the  time  this  drama  held  its  sway  the  gaucho 
was  the  Argentine.  The  gaucho  is  not  unlike  our  own  cow- 
boy, and  yet  he  is  much  more  than  that — he  is  the  pioneer  and 
the  outlaw  also.  After  the  Indian  came  the  gaucho,  and, 
though  he  occupied  a  very  definite  place  in  the  scheme  of 
things,  he  never  admitted  the  rule  of  any  one  who  was  not 
of  his  own  ilk.  He  resisted  the  rule  of  the  Spaniard,  but  he 
resisted  the  rule  of  the  Argentineans,  of  whom  he  was  one, 
quite  as  vigorously.  He  fought  to  put  Rosas  into  office 
because  Rosas  claimed  kinship  with  him,  but  when  Rosas 
changed  the  Presidential  chair  into  the  throne  of  a  tyrant 
and  turned  against  his  brethren  it  was  the  gaucho  who 
ultimately  brought  him  to  his  fall.  Thus  the  gaucho  is  dif- 
ferent from  any  other  type.  He  is  the  national  hero  par 
excellence;  he  is  a  unique  and  powerful  symbol  of  the  people. 
It  may  make  the  case  more  clear  to  say  that  he  is  a  strange 
and  fascinating  mixture  of  Daniel  Booue,  the  pioneer,  of 
Buffalo  Bill,  the  beau  ideal  of  the  cowboy,  and  of  Robin 
Hood,  the  outlaw,  and  the  friend  of  the  masses  against  the 
classes.  It  must  be  remembered,  too,  that  the  Argentine 
is  a  great  cattle  country,  that  there  is  no  other  prime  interest 
in  the  country  which  amounts  to  anything  besides  cattle. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

The  national  wealth,  the  whole  raison  d'etre  of  the  land, 
is  in  the  great  herds  of  cattle  out  on  the  pampas,  or  plains. 
Likewise  there  are  not  the  great  sectional  differences  that 
confront  us  here,  or  there  were  not  a  few  years  ago.  It  is 
much  as  if  our  own  "wild  west"  bordered  directly  on  New 
York  City.  Buenos  Aires  is  the  only  great  city  of  the 
Argentine,  and  the  pampas  rolled  up  to  its  very  gates. 

The  gaucho  also  has  certain  characteristics  that  are 
peculiarly  his  own.  He  must  be  a  perfect  cattleman,  of  course, 
expert  with  the  lasso  and  quick  with  the  knife  and  the  re- 
volver, and,  more  than  this,  he  has  a  poetic  side  which  must 
not  be  disregarded.  He  must  play  well  upon  the  guitar, 
and  he  must  be  able  to  hold  his  own  in  the  serenade  or  singing 
contest.  There  were  payadorex  or  wandering  gaucho  min- 
strels who  rode  the  pampas  with  their  guitars  on  their  backs 
and  their  knives  in  their  belts.  Such  was  Santos  Vega,  the 
traditional  payador  of  the  Argentine.  The  singing  contest 
consisted  of  a  bout  between  two  payadores,  who  in  turn  ex- 
temporized verses  to  the  accompaniment  of  their  guitars. 
Some  of  these  verses  were  general  in  nature,  bearing  on  the 
gaucho  and  his  wrongs.  They  were  laments  in  reality,  and 
have  some  resemblance  atmospherically  to  our  own  cowboy 
songs,  which  are  lugubrious  to  a  degree.  But  in  the  contest 
one  gaucho  would  ask  a  series  of  questions  in  verse,  to  which 
the  other  had  to  reply  aptly  and  wittily.  If  he  failed  an 
answer,  or  answered  poorly,  he  lost.  At  the  same  time  there 
was  an  undercurrent  of  personalities  in  the  songs  which  were 
intended  to  sting  the  other  singer  to  a  hot  retort.  In  plain 
American  slang — they  tried  to  get  each  other's  goat!  The 
one  who  failed  to  turn  the  edge  of  the  blow  with  his  retort 
or  who  lost  his  temper  was  adjudged  the  loser.  And  at  the 
same  time  all  the  verse  had  to  conform  to  certain  rules  and 
conventions  which  gave  birth  in  time  to  what  is  now  known 
as  gaucho  verse,  a  ballad  form  not  unlike  that  of  Francois 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

Villon.  It  was  no  mean  feat  and  would  have  been  utterly 
impossible  to  a  people  who  were  not  perfectly  accustomed  to 
couch  their  ideas  in  verse  as  a  matter  of  course,  a  nation  at 
once  poetical  and  musical. 

On  the  whole,  then,  the  gaucho  is  or  was  the  king,  benevo- 
lent or  otherwise,  of  the  country.  This  is  naturally  becoming 
less  true  every  day  as  the  conditions  which  gave  birth  to  the 
gaucho  change  and  depart.  So  it  is  that  the  gaucho  plays 
are  to  be  seen  less  and  less  often  in  the  theaters.  Neverthe- 
less they  are,  from  one  standpoint  at  least,  the  most  significant 
dramatic  development  the  country  has  produced. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  Argentine  Republic  and,  indeed, 
today  there  were  traveling  circuses  which  went  from  town 
to  town,  staying  in  each  so  long  as  it  seemed  profitable 
to  do  so.  These  in  time  became  an  institution,  and  the 
management  was  handed  down  in  the  same  families  for 
generations,  as  were  the  traditions  of  the  clowns  and  acrobats. 
Gradually  there  crept  into  the  circus  performance  a  short, 
informal,  and  sometimes  impromptu  play  which  dealt  with 
local  conditions,  and  so  was  easily  appreciated  by  the  rustic 
audience.  These  plays  were  for  the  most  part  frank  melo- 
dramas which  were  all  written  about  the  national  figure,  the 
gaucho.  In  time  the  plays  took  form  until  there  came  to  be 
a  definite  repertory,  and,  after  a  certain  point,  no  additions 
were  made  to  this,  so  that  we  have  a  small  group  of  plays 
repeated  for  years  all  over  the  country,  adored  by  the  people, 
and,  in  due  course,  scoffed  at  by  those  wise  ones  whose  taste 
had  benefited  by  European  excursions.  And  the  plays  grew 
in  body  and  in  interest  until  from  being  merely  an  act  of  the 
circus  proper  they  divorced  themselves  from  their  progenitor 
entirely  and  demanded  a  place  of  their  own.  The  two  great 
theatrical  managers  of  Buenos  Aires  today — they  are  actor- 
managers  and  producers — are  the  brothers  Podestd,  who 
many  years  ago  began  their  career  as  members  of  a  family 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

of  acrobats  in  a  traveling  circus  which  included  the  gaucho 
plays.  To  them  was  first  entrusted  the  work  of  producing 
the  dramas  criottos  as  such,  and  during  the  time  when  the 
native  plays  were  running  their  course  the  Podestas  were  its 
ablest  exponents.  They  have  even  produced  the  gaucho 
plays  in  Buenos  Aires  itself  many  times,  but  now,  alas,  they 
have  graduated,  perforce,  into  the  later  and  more  sophisti- 
cated forms  of  the  drama,  for  the  gaucho  has  had  his  day 
and  has  passed  into  history. 

Jose"  J.  Podesta,  a  criollo  himself  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the 
term,  wrote  a  pantomime  which  was  played  in  1884  by 
Podestd  and  his  brother-in-law,  Scotti,  as  part  of  the  pro- 
gram of  a  circus  owned  and  managed  by  the  brothers  Carlo. 
The  pantomime  was  a  great  success,  but  its  run  was  inter- 
rupted because  the  Carlos  had  to  go  to  Brazil  to  fill  a  con- 
tract, and  for  some  reason  they  did^not  take  Podesta  and 
his  play  with  them.  A  little  later  Podesta  and  Scotti  formed 
a  circus  company  of  their  own  with  which  they  traveled 
about  the  province  of  Buenos  Aires,  but  whether  the  panto- 
mime was  included  I  do  not  know. 

After  Podestd  made  his  first  great  success  with  Juan 
Moreira  in  1886  they  moved  their  company  from  Chivilcoy 
to  Montevideo.  Following  Juan  Moreira  came  Martin 
Fierro  (attributed  severally  to  Jose"  Hernandez  and  Dr.  Elias 
Regules)  and  Juan  Cuello,  by  Luis  Mejfas,  taken  from  a  like- 
named  novel  by  Eduardo  Gutierrez.  Then  the  company 
moved  again,  this  time  to  the  Teatro  Apollo  in  Buenos  Aires. 
From  1889  to  1898  appeared  Julian  Gimenez,  by  Abd6n 
Ar6steguy;  El  Entenao,  by  Dr.  Elias  Regules;  Juan  Soldao, 
by  Orosman  Moratorio;  Cobarde,  by  Victor  Perez  Petit; 
Santos  Vega,  by  Nosiglia;  Calandria,  by  Martiniano  Leguiza- 
m6n — this,  by  the  way,  is  said  to  be  the  first  gaucho  drama 
written  with  any  pretense  at  literary  style;  and  Tranquera, 
by  Agustfn  Fontanella, 


INTRODUCTION  xk 

From  1898  on  the  type  began  to  change.  The  gaucho 
began  to  disappear.  The  dramas  criollos  had  had  a  hard  time 
of  it  even  at  the  start.  There  was  a  paucity  of  companies 
to  present  them;  many  companies  came  from  abroad  with 
preconceived  plans  and  repertories  all  made  up  and  were 
little  disposed  to  bother  with  local  attempts  at  playwriting. 
All  efforts  to  really  establish  gaucho  drama  failed  until 
Podestd  and  Scotti  took  over  the  Teatro  Apollo  in  Buenos 
Aires.  First  they  rented  it  for  a  week,  then  for  a  month, 
then  for  two  months,  and  finally  the  months  lengthened  into 
eleven  years.  This  company  gave  rise  to  others,  such  as 
Geronimo's  and  Pablo  Podestd's,  and  each  new  company  in 
turn  had  its  schooling  at  the  original  Teatro  Apollo. 

From  the  time  when  the  dramas  criollos  took  their  place  in 
the  sun  up  to  the  present  there  has  been  little  change  in  their 
representation.  The  plays  themselves  have  remained  the 
same;  there  have  been  no  additions  of  sufficient  importance 
to  become  permanent,  and  the  small  body  of  historic  drama 
has  become  fixed,  classic.  Its  line,  its  business,  and  its 
general  mode  of  production  are  almost  as  much  a  matter 
of  convention  as  those  of  the  plays  of  Moliere  at  the  Come'die 
Francaise.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  not  until  recently 
that  the  plays  were  committed  to  paper  at  all,  much  less 
published.  They  were  handed  down  by  word  of  mcuth  along 
with  the  accessories  of  their  presentation,  the  lines  and 
business  being  so  well  known  to  the  native  audiences  that  a 
howl  of  fury  would  greet  any  deviation,  however  slight, 
from  the  traditional  form.  They  have  been  in  print  less  than 
ten  years. 

After  their  separation  from  the  circus  the  dramas  criollos 
were  performed,  for  the  most  part,  by  traveling  companies 
who  carried  with  them  a  portable  theater  which  included 
even  an  auditorium.  This  building  was  about  120  feet 
long  and  a  third  as  wide.  The  top  was  of  corrugated  iron, 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

while  the  body  of  the  structure  was  of  wood.  Within  two 
or,  at  the  most,  three  days  after  the  company  had  arrived 
in  a  town  the  theater  was  ready  for  occupancy.  It  was 
clamped  together,  the  joints  fitting  into  one  another  so 
cunningly  that  the  whole  was  as  solid  as  if  nails  and  mortar 
had  been  used  in  its  erection.  Inside  the  house  was  the 
stage  at  one  end,  with  just  enough  room  behind  it  for  the 
necessary  changes  of  costume;  there  were  but  few  of  them. 
In  front  of  the  stage  was  a  ring,  a  relic  of  the  old  circus 
days,  with  an  aisle  leading  from  it,  through  the  audience, 
to  the  outside,  so  that,  when  it  was  desirable,  exits  and 
entrances  could  be  made  in  this  manner.  It  greatly  facilitated 
the  use  of  horses  which  were  so  much  a  part  and  parcel  of 
the  gaucho  that  even  on  the  stage  his  "sorrel  steed"  had  a 
rdle  to  play  in  the  performance.  While  the  players  in  the 
guise  of  gauchos  raided  the  peaceful  hacienda  on  the  stage, 
their  peons  held  their  horses  in  the  ring  below.  Then  when 
the  dreadful  work  was  done,  with  yells  and  shouts  the 
villains  would  leap  the  footlights,  swing  themselves  on  their 
plunging  mounts,  and  dash  out  through  the  excited  audience 
to  safety.  Some  such  use  of  the  horses  will  be  found  in  two 
of  the  plays  included  in  this  volume. 

The  scenery  used,  when  there  was  any  at  all,  was  of  the 
most  primitive  description,  consisting  for  the  most  part  of 
very  crude  back  cloths  and  such  properties  as  were  absolutely 
essential.  The  lighting  was  on  the  same  scale — oil  lamps, 
lanterns,  and,  even  in  some  instances,  candles  and  torches 
were  utilized.  The  stage  took  most  of  its  lighting  from 
whatever  footlights  could  be  provided. 

Those  of  the  audience  who  composed  family  parties,  and 
there  were  many  such,  were  seated  in  small  compartments  or 
boxes  which  were  placed  in  a  long  tier  around  the  sides  of 
the  house,  but  not  at  the  back,  for  here  the  seats,  or  rather 
benches,  rose  steeply  until  they  thrust  that  unfortunate 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

jfcte- 

who  was  in  the  topmost  row  in  close  juxtaposition  to  the  iron 
roof  which  was  either  freezing  cold  or  burning  hot,  depending 
upon  the  season.  The  matine'e  is  very  rare  in  South  America, 
for  it  infringes  too  heavily  on  that  most  necessary  adjunct, 
the  siesta,  and  the  early  afternoon  is  often  too  warm  to  permit 
the  enjoyment  of  even  the  most  entrancing  play.  These 
theaters  were  like  ice-houses  in  winter,  for  there  was  no 
method  of  heating  them  adequately,  and  the  Argentine  winter 
in  the  uplands  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  though  it  is  not  seldom 
to  be  sneezed  with!  Decoration  was  almost  totally  absent, 
and  so  likewise  was  ventilation,  but  who  is  he  who  will  pause 
to  take  thought  for  creature  comfort  within  the  worshiping- 
place  of  art?  At  any  rate  I  am  convinced  that  there  are  some 
of  our  own  managers  who  proceed  on  that  principle. 

The  plays  themselves  were  usually  not  long,  but  consisted 
of  many  scenes,  some  of  which  only  lasted  long  enough  to 
convey  a  fleeting  impression;  connecting  scenes  between  the 
acts  they  were  in  reality.  This  resulted  in  making  the 
plays  episodic  in  the  extreme;  perhaps  the  closest  likeness 
to  their  form  being  that  of  the  moving  picture.  Juan  Moreira 
is  a  good  example  of  this  tendency.  Certain  "wild  west" 
elements  were  usually  retained  in  some  degree,  but  these, 
after  all,  were  an  essential  part  of  the  gaucho  character. 

The  cost  of  admission  to  the  play  was  usually  from  twenty 
to  seventy  cents.  The  boxes  were  primarily  for  family  use, 
but  when  one  bought  a  box  one  had  to  pay  an  entrada  or 
entrance  fee  as  well.  This  custom  of  a  double  price  is  com- 
mon all  through  Latin  America  from  Mexico  to  the  Straits. 
The  entrada  permits  one  to  enter  the  theater  and  to  stand, 
but  if  one  desires  to  sit  down,  the  seat  itself  is  extra. 

In  the  true  dramas  criollos  the  gaucho  is  always  the  pro- 
tagonist. He  is  usually  shown  pitted  against  the  soldiers 
from  the  capital  or  against  the  local  constabulary;  any  one, 
indeed,  who  represents  constituted  authority,  his  traditional 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

enemy.  Buenos  Aires  was  always  the  seat  of  the  oppressor, 
no  matter  who  the  oppressor  happened  to  be.  The  gaucho 
represented  the  people  of  the  soil  as  opposed  to  the  hirelings 
of  the  tyrant  much  as  Robin  Hood  did,  for  in  the  Argentine 
in  the  old  days  the  government  was  too  often  literally  and 
absolutely  despotic,  and  thus  the  gaucho  automatically  be- 
came a  hero.  There  was  another  stock  figure  in  these  plays 
through  which  the  comedy  element,  or  a  large  portion  of  it, 
was  realized.  This  was  an  Italian  born  in  the  Argentine, 
but  retaining  many  of  his.national  characteristics,  and  usually, 
illogically  enough,  speaking  an  atrocious  mixed  dialect  which 
was  always  provocative  of  much  amusement.  He  was 
generally  the  "second  villain."  As  nearly  all  of  these  plays 
end  tragically,  the  villain  triumphed,  or  seemed  to,  but  his 
tool,  the  Italian,  was  made  to  "bite  the  dust"  regularly. 
This  satisfied  the  popular  demand  for  a  certain  modicum  of 
justice,  and  enabled  the  people  to  rejoice  not  only  at  the 
fall  of  an  enemy,  but  of  an  Italian  as  well,  and  Italian  in- 
fluence, always  strong  in  the  Argentine,  was  not  popular  at 
that  time.  The  Italian  was  the  buffoon,  and  his  part  often 
included  rough  and  tumble  work  of  no  mean  description. 
Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  the  dramas  criollos  became  highly 
conventionalized  both  in  content  and  in  the  matter  of  pres- 
entation with  stock  figures  and  with  situations  capable  of 
development,  but  never  of  radical  change. 

The  dramas  criollos  which  were  at  first  most  effective  were 
those  which  depicted  the  life  and  adventures  of  a  real  per- 
sonage who  had  lived,  and  whose  fame  nearly  reached  the 
point  of  being  glorious  in  the  province  of  Buenos  Aires,  the 
largest  and  by  far  the  most  important  in  the  republic.  This 
was  Juan  Moreira,  who  was  entirely  representative  of  the 
gaucho  of  the  Argentine  pampas,  and  indeed  of  the  gaucho 
in  general.  He  was  brave  and  daring,  of  great  intelligence, 
a  good  horseman,  and  of  a  chivalrous  disposition,  but  in 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

spite  of  this  he  was  eternally  hounded  by  the  authorities,  and 
again  and  again  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  police  of  the  country. 

Needless  to  say  he  was  a  man  who  was  always  ready  and 
efficient  in  defending  his  life  against  whatever  number  of 
his  enemies  confronted  him.  Hence,  Juan  Moreira  came  to 
be  in  a  sense  an  incarnation  of  the  Argentine  peasant,  of 
the  poor,  the  homeless,  the  oppressed,  this  condition  being 
forced  upon  him  by  the  very  government  which  he  had 
served  as  a  soldier,  not  only  in  the  wars  of  the  first  epoch  of 
Argentine  history,  but  afterward  in  all  their  later  struggles 
for  liberty.  He  became  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  people  the 
apotheosis  of  the  humble  inhabitant  sacrificed  by  the  feudal 
lord  of  the  nation  in  its  period  of  semi-barbarism. 

This  was  a  theme  near  to  the  hearts  of  the  masses,  and  one 
which  they  could  readily  understand,  dealing  as  it  did  with 
their  own  lives  and  their  own  problems.  It  had  been  already 
treated  by  several  poets,  such  as  Jose  Hernandez,  who  wrote 
in  gaucho  verse  Martin  Fierro;1  by  Rafael  Obligado,2  the 
author  of  the  famous  Santos  Vega,  in  pure  verse;  or  by 
Sarrniento,  who  made  a  sociological  study  of  the  bad  gaucho 
in  his  book,  Facundo.3 

Juan  Moreira  was  immortalized  in  the  form  of  a  novel  by 
Eduardo  Gutierrez,  a  newspaper  publisher  by  profession, 
but  who  had  written  novels  at  intervals.  His  works  consist 
chiefly  of  romances  woven  about  such  themes  as  bandits  and 
thieves,  and  the  victim's  blood  spilled  by  the  tyrant  Rosas. 
However,  in  April,  1886,  or  thereabouts,  the  drama,  Juan 
Moreira,4  was  presented  for  the  first  time  in  Chivilcoy.  It 

1  The  play  Martin  Fierro  is  attributed  by  Dr.  David  Pena  to  Jose 
Hernandez,  and  I  have  accepted  this  authority.  On  the  other  hand 
Rodolfo  Fausto  Rodriguez  in  his  Contribuci6n  al  estudio  del  teatro 
national  names  Dr.  Elias  Regules  as  the  author.  This  question  is 
taken  up  more  fully  in  Note  C  at  the  end  of  this  volume.  (See  also 
Note  B.)  2  See  Note  D  in  Appendix. 

3  See  Note  E  in  Appendix,  *  See  Note  B  in  Appendix, 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

was  written  by  Podestd  at  the  suggestion  of  a  friend,  Le<5n 
Poupy,  and  it  contained  two  acts  and  nine  scenes.  If  the 
play  in  this  form  was  ever  even  reduced  to  manuscript  it 
certainly  at  least  never  reached  the  dignity  of  print.  Juan 
Moreira  was,  not  unnaturally,  considering  its  instant  and 
overwhelming  popularity,  the  forerunner  of  others  of  its 
type.  Soon  there  was  a  perfect  influx  of  plays  of  the  same 
character,  some  being  founded  on  real  persons,  while  others 
were  wholly  fictitious.  Among  the  most  famous  of  these 
plays  are  Juan  Moreira,  Santos  Vega,  Pastor  Luna,  and 
Musolino,  the  last  being  the  title  of  the  well-known  Italian 
bandit.  So  marked  and  so  wide-spread  was  the  influence  of 
these  plays  that  in  the  neighboring  country  of  Uruguay,  on 
the  further  side  of  the  Rio  de  la  Plata,  there  was  at  this  time 
an  inundation  of  plays  which  were  called  camper  as,  and  which 
were  clearly  modeled  upon  the  Juan  Moreira  type  of  Creole 
drama.  I  will  return  to  the  dramas  criollos  when  I  take  up 
the  separate  plays  in  this  volume  for  individual  considera- 
tion, but  it  is  enough  to  say  now  that  the  gaucho  plays  ran 
their  course,  and  served  their  purpose  in  revitalizing  the  ap- 
parently defunct  body  of  the  drama,  and  were  only  super- 
seded when  the  rapidly  growing  culture  of  the  nation  de- 
manded in  no  uncertain  tones  something  a  trifle  less  naive. 
The  dramas  criollos  were  not  such  that  upon  them  could 
be  based  the  permanent  dramatic  literature  of  a  nation. 
Indeed,  they  could  not  be  considered  truly  as  literature  in 
the  stylistic  sense  at  all.  It  was  interesting,  and  even  im- 
portant in  its  unique  quality,  and,  had  its  crude  edges  ever 
been  refined  and  polished,  it  might  easily  have  become  of 
high  value  as  art.  It  was  peculiarly  indigenous,  and  vitally 
essential  to  the  proper  development  of  the  country  at  the 
time,  but  in  the  very  nature  of  things  it  could  not  exist 
forever.  The  Argentine  has  grown  beyond  it,  and  is  too  full 
of  European  influences  to  permit  its  retention.  But  it  has 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

not  been  lost;  it  fulfilled  its  purpose  well,  and  will  long  be 
remembered. 

One  of  the  most  potent  reasons  for  the  next  step  in  the 
evolution  of  the  Argentine  drama  was  the  supply  of  artists 
and  actors  who  were  native  Argentineans.  The  country  had 
developed  a  language  of  its  own,  more  or  less,  and  the  Spanish 
and  Italian  producers  failed  to  satisfy  the  popular  demand. 
The  first  period  of  the  dramas  nacionales  had  been  imitative 
to  a  certain  extent;  this  was  no  longer  possible,  and  the  nation 
demanded  a  drama  of  its  own  to  take  the  place  of  the  dramas 
criottos,  which  were  no  longer  considered  sufficiently  cultivated 
to  represent  the  state  of  civilization  which  had  been  reached 
by  this  time.  But  it  was  the  dramas  criollos,  nevertheless, 
which  made  this  next  step  possible. 

In  the  security  of  having  proper  interpreters  for  their  work, 
authors  began  to  try  their  hands  at  a  somewhat  more  elevated 
type  of  production  than  the  famous  creole  plays,  but  they 
were  still  unable  to  produce  drama  which  was  really  satisfy- 
ing either  from  a  literary  or  from  a  purely  dramatic  point  of 
view.  It  cannot  be  said  that  they  even  equaled  at  this  time 
the  comedy  of  the  first  period,  which  was  well  represented  by 
the  plays  of  Onrubia,  Coronado,  Garcfa,  and  the  two  works  of 
Pena,  Que  Dird  la  Sociedad  and  La  Lucha  por  la  Vida,  writ- 
ten in  pure  verse,  and  given  to  the  public  in  1883  and  1885. 

In  the  third  phase  of  the  dramas  nacionales  the  outstanding 
figure  is  doubtless  Don  Enrique  Garcia  Velloso,  whose  work 
both  in  quantity  and  in  quality  placed  him  first  in  the  list 
of  dramatists  of  this  period.  There  was  also  produced  at 
this  time  one  work,  the  great  popularity  of  which  obtained  the 
author  a  reputation  almost  overnight.  This  was  M'hijo  el 
dotor,  by  Don  Florencio  Sanchez,  the  plot  of  which  is  based 
upon  life  in  the  suburbs.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  in 
Spanish  America  the  slums  of  a  city  are  usually  on.  its  out- 
skirts, and  thus  the  words  slum  and  suburb  carry  somewhat 


sxvi  INTRODUCTION 

the  same  meaning.  Sanchez  cultivated  this  intermediate 
ground  with  great  success,  but  when  he  endeavored  to  apply 
his  talents  to  depicting  life  in  educated  circles  he  did  not 
meet  with  the  same  result.  It  was  also  during  this  period 
that  Dr.  David  Pefia  contributed  several  plays  based  upon 
episodes  in  the  history  of  the  Argentine.  Among  these  were 
Facundo,  presented  in  1906  with  great  success,  then  later, 
Dorrego,  and  last,  Liniers,  a  drama  concerned  with  the  life 
of  the  famous  general  of  that  name. 

Therefore,  starting  at  about  1902  we  find  that  the  pro- 
duction of  dramatic  literature  in  the  Argentine  had  again 
taken  on  life,  and  was  indeed  very  abundant,  an  effort 
having  been  made  to  substitute  a  more  cultured  atmosphere 
than  that  of  the  period  immediately  preceding.  In  this 
stimulated  environment  authors  came  to  light  whose  works 
would  grace  the  stage  of  any  country,  and  whose  names 
will  one  day  reappear  on  the  bill-boards. 

This  stage  of  development  lasted  only  about  ten  years, 
however.  The  plays,  though  worthy,  did  not  meet  with  the 
popular  response  necessary  for  their  continuation,  and  the 
inevitable  break  came  again,  as  it  did  after  the  first  period 
of  production.  This  time  the  reaction  brought  no  such 
interesting  and  important  development  as  the  dramas  criolhs. 
The  day  of  light  social  comedy  had  arrived,  and  everything 
gave  way  before  it.  All  that  was  gaucho,  as  well  as  all  that 
was  intellectual,  gave  place  to  mirth,  and  superficiality  of 
not  a  very  high  type  reigned.  This  is  more  or  less  true 
today,  for  the  next  stage  of  development  has  not  yet  arrived. 
But  one  must  not  forget,  in  passing  judgment,  the  youth  and 
inheritance  of  the  Argentine.  What  has  been  accomplished 
already  is  astonishing,  considering  the  very  short  time  that 
has  passed  since  the  beginning,  and  the  peculiar  circumstances 
which  have  attended  the  growth  of  the  drama. 

There  is  one  man  in  particular  to  whom  must  be  given  credit 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

for  what  is  really  worth  while  in  the  present  era  of  the  Ar- 
gentine drama.  This  is  Florencio  Parravicini,  a  young  man 
of  good  family  and  of  Italian  extraction,  who,  possessed  of 
many  talents,  succeeded  in  gaining  the  ear  of  the  public 
in  spite  of  opposition.  The  current  of  production  has  been 
diverted  from  its  course  largely  by  this  author-actor-manager, 
who  has  in  reality  created  a  new  school  of  his  own.  It  is  the 
heyday  of  light  comedy  in  the  Argentine,  and  this  phase 
of  the  dramas  nacionales  must  be  allowed  to  run  itself  out 
before  the  new  day  dawns. 

These  modern  light  comedies  have  some  features,  however, 
which  render  them  of  interest.  As  I  have  said,  they  are 
nearly  all  plays  of  contemporary  life,  and  by  far  the  greater 
part  of  them  are  light  satires.  They  are  modern  in  form, 
their  aim  being  to  reflect  the  manners  and  mannerisms, 
the  superficial  idiosyncrasies  of  speech  and  custom  of  the 
great  middle  class.  It  is  almost  entirely  a  drama  of  externals, 
and  the  public  goes  to  see  itself  pilloried  and  to  laugh  at  its 
own  foibles. 

Many  of  the  plays  are  written  under  somewhat  the  condi- 
tions which  governed  the  writing  of  Elizabethan  drama; 
that  is,  a  play  is  written  on  Tuesday  to  be  performed  the 
following  Monday,  and  by  the  next  Wednesday  it  is  either 
in  stock  or  in  the  waste-paper  basket.  Seldom  has  a  play  a 
really  long  run;  indeed  the  long  run  as  we  know  it  here  is 
practically  unknown  in  the  Argentine.  Occasionally,  when 
a  play  has  achieved  great  popularity,  such  as  Juan  Moreira, 
it  is  revived,  but  this  is  seldom. 

The  short  interval  between  the  writing  and  the  production 
of  a  play  necessitates  the  use  of  two  prompters,  one  of  whom 
is  stationed  in  the  prompter's  box,  down  stage  center,  and 
the  other  in  the  wings.  This  last  reads  the  script  aloud  a 
few  lines  ahead  of  the  cast,  who  pick  up  their  speeches  from 
him  as  they  go  along,  with  the  most  amazing  facility.  Some- 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

times  a  cast  will  never  even  have  read  the  play  they  are  about 
to  perform,  and  will  hardly  know  whether  it  is  a  comedy  or 
a  tragedy  until  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  It  would  seem  that  a 
production  given  in  this  fashion  would  be  ragged  enough, 
but  this  is  not  so.  Long  training  has  given  the  players  such 
ease  in  their  difficult  task  that  if  one  did  not  know  the 
true  conditions  beforehand  one  would  never  suspect  them 
from  the  actual  performance. 

Parravicini,  indeed,  often  improvises  his  pieces  as  he  goes 
along,  his  quickness  of  wit  and  cleverness  of  invention  making 
up  for  any  discrepancies  in  structure.  It  is  the  Commedia 
del  Arte  over  again!  Parravicini  is  an  immensely  talented 
mimic,  and  one  of  his  best  parts  is  that  of  a  foreigner  speak- 
ing bad  Argentine.  So  it  is  that  the  American  colony  will 
go  one  night  to  hear  him  imitate  an  American,  and  the 
Germans  (though  no  more)  will  go  the  next  to  revel  in  his 
description  of  one  of  their  countrymen  in  the  throes  of  mis- 
understanding. Incidentally  this  modern  comedy  has  de- 
veloped the  use  of  paper  scenery  rather  interestingly. 

Paper  scenery  is  used  very  extensively  in  Italy  and  to  a 
certain  extent  in  France.  One  might  think  that  it  would 
not  be  durable,  but  a  set  so  constructed  will  last  for  three  or 
four  seasons.  It  is  certainly  an  immense  saving  for  the 
manager  in  transportation  when  the  scenery  for  an  entire 
repertory  season  can  be  easily  packed  and  carried  in  two  or 
three  trunks.  Cloth  absorbs  paint,  while  paper  does  not, 
so  that  the  effect  of  light  on  the  pigments  is  somewhat  dif- 
ferent. The  colors  seem  to  be  more  brilliant,  more  alive, 
reflecting  the  light  instead  of  permitting  it  to  sink  in.  Ob- 
viously this  has  its  advantages,  and  its  disadvantages  as  well. 
Every  company  has  stock  frames  on  which  the  paper  is  lightly 
tacked,  and,  as  it  is  trimmed  with  a  rough  cloth  at  the 
edges,  it  will  really  stand  a  great  deal  of  wear  and  tear. 
Paper  scenery  has  been  tried  in  this  country  as  well,  but  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

fire  laws  prohibit  its  use  almost  everywhere  now,  rather 
foolishly  it  seems,  for  it  is  but  little  more  inflammable  than 
cloth.  With  the  use  of  paper,  however,  many  realistic  effects 
which  are  common  with  us  cannot  be  obtained,  and  to  see 
an  American  actor  trying  to  slam  a  paper  door  on  the  Ar- 
gentine stage  is  almost  a  tragedy  in  itself.  But  with  the 
doing  away  with  realistic  treatment  on  the  modern  stage, 
the  effort  to  suggest  rather  than  to  represent,  the  use  of  paper 
scenery  offers  many  interesting  solutions  to  the  producer 
of  today.  It  seems  to  me  probable  that  the  use  of  this 
scenery  was  brought  to  the  Argentine  by  those  Italians  who 
came  over  early  in  the  history  of  the  country,  and  who  form 
so  essential  an  element  in  the  dramas  criollos.  Surely  the 
"serpent's  tooth"  was  never  more  in  evidence  than  here! 

Besides  Parravicini,  another  of  the  successful  authors  of  the 
day  is  Gregorio  Laferrere,  who  has  at  least  three  pronounced 
hits  to  his  credit:  Locos  de  Verano,  Las  de  Barranco,  and 
Jettatorc.  The  titles  themselves  suggest  the  type  of  play: 
The  Follies  of  Summer,  from  flirting  to  puns  on  straw  hats; 
The  Women  of  Barranco,  the  story  of  the  family  of  a  famous 
general,  who,  after  his  death,  lived  on  the  strength  of  lus 
fame,  and  Bad  Luck,  which  always  explains  itself.  Most  of 
these  are  played  at  the  Teatro  Apollo,  or  the  Moderno,  while 
Parravicini  holds  forth  exclusively  at  the  Teatro  Argentino. 
All  three  of  these  theaters  are  in  Buenos  Aires,  and,  indeed, 
the  drama  performed  nowadays  outside  the  capital  city 
itself  is  comparatively  scarce. 

There  are  some  thirty  theaters  in  the  Argentine  which  are 
open  all  the  year  round,  and  in  1916  the  income  from  these 
was  some  two  million  dollars.  It  may  weem  to  us  of  the 
north  that  this  is  not  a  great  sum  nor  a  vast  array  of  play- 
houses for  the  dramatic  interests  of  a  nation,  but  it  is  well 
not  to  forget  that  ten  years  or  so  ago  the  entire  population 
of  the  Argentine  numbered  a  bit  less  than  the  population 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

of  New  York  City  today.  There  is  no  theater  in  the  world 
more  beautiful  and  more  complete  than  the  great  Teatro 
Colon  in  Buenos  Aires,  with  its  seating  capacity  of  3,500  and 
its  extra  room  for  1,000  standees.  This  is  where  the  opera 
is  given,  and  it  is  probable  that  there  is  no  finer  opera  to  be 
found.  It  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  devote  some  space 
to  certain  phases  of  opera  in  the  Argentine  just  here,  for  this 
form  of  entertainment  has  diverted  many  thousands  of  dollars 
from  its  precursor,  the  theater. 

As  in  many  cities  of  South  America  the  semi-tropical 
weather  naturally  affects  operatic  conditions,  and  many 
municipal  theaters  and  opera-houses  arc  built  rather  on  the 
plan  of  summer  gardens.  In  such  instances  the  perfect 
quiet,  which,  if  not  inspired,  is  always  demanded  by  music,  is 
obtained  by  laws  which  affect  the  traffic.  Within  a  radius 
of  several  blocks  of  the  opera-house  the  streets  are  paved 
with  special  material  to  deaden  the  sound,  and  regulations 
affecting  the  conduct  of  individuals  within  the  immediate 
vicinity  are  rigidly  enforced.  These  regulations  are  similar  in 
effect  to  our  own  which  govern  the  streets  on  which  schools 
and  hospitals  are  located. 

All  Spanish-American  opera-houses  are  under  the  direction 
of  the  municipality.  A  grand-opera  commission  is  appointed 
in  much  the  same  way  as  we  appoint  a  commission  in  our 
economic  or  political  organization.  The  opera-house  itself 
is,  as  a  rule,  leased  to  some  individual  who  may  or  may  not 
be  an  impresario  or  manager.  Often  this  person  is  simply  in 
favor  with  the  local  government,  and  thereby  obtains  the 
concession  through  political  standing.  T'<is,  however,  never 
interferes  with  the  general  progress  of  the  grand-opera  season 
which,  in  the  case  of  Buenos  Aires,  is  at  its  height  during  the 
mouths  of  May,  June,  July,  and  a  part  of  August. 

The  general  procedure  with  operatic  productions  is  to 
appoint  an  expert  to  go  to  Europe  and  select  the  artists, 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

choruses,  costumes,  scenery,  accessories,  and  all  the  miscel- 
laneous accouterments  which  are  required  for  the  production 
of  the  season's  work.  This  expert  has  the  power  to  engage 
and  contract  for  every  detail,  from  music  scores  to  call-boys. 
The  transportation  of  the  entire  company  from  Milan,  for 
instance,  to  the  Argentine  is  paid  for  both  ways.  One  can 
readily  see  what  work  and  expense  this  entails,  especially 
when  scarcely  a  single  chorus  dancer  or  ballet  girl  comes  across 
the  sea  without  her  mother  or  her  sisters  and,  in  the  case  of 
those  who  are  married,  the  husband  or  wife  and  all  the 
children.  This  means  that  in  an  opera  company  of  one  hun- 
dred people  there  may  easily  be  two  hundred  extra  as  en- 
tourage.' A  striking  feature  of  these  companies  is  that  the 
musicians  are  not  engaged  in  Europe;  the  directors  are,  but 
the  orchestra  itself  is  not. 

While  the  agent  or  expert  is  busily  engaged  in  Europe  the 
commissioner  is  campaigning  for  subscriptions  to  make  up 
the  amount  of  money  required  for  a  certain  number  of  pro- 
ductions during  the  season.  The  city  itself,  of  course, 
subsidizes  the  opera-house,  but  the  people  are  still  further 
called  upon  to  support  the  music  they  demand  by  subscrip- 
tions, and  be  it  said  that  right  royally  they  do  so. 

There  is  a  distinct  social  side  to  the  opera  season  in  the 
Argentine  which  is  akin  to  the  social  features  evidenced  in  the 
continental  Sunday.  The  Sunday  matinee  performances  at 
the  Teatro  Colon  bring  together  an  assemblage  which  in 
wealth,  brilliancy,  and  atmosphere  rivals  any  operatic 
gathering  in  the  world.  Right  upon  the  heels  of  this  grandeur, 
however,  on  Sunday  night,  there  are  popular  performances  at 
popular  prices  for  "the  people." 

It  was  in  the  Teatro  Colon  that  Caruso  sang  long  before  we 
here  knew  that  there  was  such  a  man  or  such  a  voice.  Nor 
is  he  by  any  means  the  only  singer  who  has  come  to  us  after 
he  had  delighted  the  Argentine.  It  was  in  the  Teatro  Colon 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

that  Bonci,  Amato,  PlaiiQon,  Matzcuauer,  Tetrazzini,  and 
Martinclli  first  sang  publicly  in  the  western  hemisphere.  In 
Buenos  Aires  there  is  the  largest  Italian  colony  outside  of 
New  York  and  Naples,  and  to  these  half-million  Italians  is 
due  in  large  part  the  remarkable  success  of  the  great  operatic 
season. 

And  now  that  we  have  swung  all  round  the  circle  let  us 
"return  to  our  muttons"  or,  in  a  word,  to  the  dramas  criollos 
with  which  this  book  is  chiefly  concerned.  Knowing  their 
relationships  and  antecedents  as  we  now  do,  and  having 
painted  in  the  background  of  our  picture,  we  may  perhaps 
be  able  to  see  this  native  drama  more  clearly  and  in  better 
perspective. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  dramas  criollos  in  the  past  tense,  and 
perhaps  I  have  been  wrong  to  do  so.  Their  heyday,  however, 
was  that  period  when  they  occupied  the  second  half  of  an 
evening's  performance,  the  first  half  being  consumed  by 
circus  feats  and  vaudeville  acts.  But  when  the  gaucho 
drama  was  taken  from  its  native  environment  and  played 
in  the  larger  cities  it  became  in  some  wise  as  stiff  as  a  cowboy 
in  a  dress  shirt.  Even  then,  however,  it  was  saved  from 
entire  failure  by  its  verve,  dash,  intensity  of  action,  and 
most  of  all  by  its  entire  natvet6  which  rose  superior  to  the 
artificial  restrictions  imposed  upon  it.  Its  appeal  was  fun- 
damental and  national,  and  hence  could  never  be  entirely  lost. 

But  the  really  native  drama  of  the  Argentine  is  fast  fading 
from  its  stage.  Importations  and  a  more  sophisticated  and 
cosmopolitan  outlook  have  killed  it;  the  country  has  de- 
veloped beyond  it,  and  it  is  seldom  spoken  of  except  with  a 
tolerant  smile.  Indeed,  when  the  critics  of  the  Argentine 
write  of  the  dramas  criollos  the  smile  changes  to  a  grin  of  rage, 
and  they  demand  that  it  be  buried  and  forgotten.  After  all, 
this  is  inevitable  and  quite  as  it  should  be,  yet  one  cannot 
but  regret  the  past.  So  often  do  we  find  that  the  false  has 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

driven  out  the  true,  that  the  artificial  has  been  substituted 
for  the  natural,  and  that  native  work  is  frowned  upon  as  un- 
worthy, in  contrast  to  the  tawdry  novelties  dragged  in  from 
abroad.  I  speak  now  no  more  of  the  Argentine  than  of  the 
United  States.  We  are  all  tarred  with  the  same  brush.  The 
dramas  criollos  may  still  be  found  in  the  outlying  districts, 
and  upon  occasion  within  the  capital  city  itself,  but  it  is  not 
as  it  once  was,  nor  will  it  ever  be. 

The  word  criollo  or  Creole  may  require  a  little  elucidation. 
It  is  much  more  than  a  mere  modifying  adjective  signifying 
native  or  Creole.  It  is  more  as  when  we  in  New  York  City 
speak  of  the  Metropolitan  police.  Metropolitan  becomes  a 
noun  on  the  instant  with  a  most  exact  connotation,  and 
criollo  must  be  considered  in  precisely  the  same  way.  It  is 
of  the  soil  of  the  Argentine  peculiarly  and  utterly,  and  yet 
it  does  not  convey  the  sense  of  being  plebeian  any  more 
than  our  Knickerbocker  or  Mayflower  stock  does.  One  may 
use  it  in  connection  with  either  a  grandee  or  a  peasant. 

Here  then,  with  the  dramas  criollos  is,  or  was,  an  indigenous 
drama  in  the  most  strict,  though  not  the  most  absolute  sense. 
The  very  isolation  which  gave  it  birth  militated  against  its 
becoming  widely  known  in  other  countries.  Any  influence 
that  it  might  have  had  upon  drama  as  a  whole  is  rather  more 
than  problematical,  but  it  is  certainly  deserving  of  a  place  in 
dramatic  history.  English  drama  developed  from  the  church 
and  the  miracle  play,  as  Greek  drama  developed  from  the 
sacred  mysteries;  I  know  of  no  other  drama  than  that  of  the 
Argentine  which  has  found  its  inception  in  the  sawdust  ring. 

Of  the  three  plays  in  this  volume  two  have  been  selected 
because  they  represent  the  drama  criollo  at  their  best.  They 
are  perhaps  the  most  famous  in  all  the  category  of  gauoho 
plays,  and  carry  as  do  no  others  the  very  spirit  of  the  pampas. 
These  are  Juan  Morcira  and  Santos  Vega.  The  third  play, 
La  Montana  de  las  Brnjas,  or  The  \Yitches'  Mountain,  is 


xxxiv  .INTRODUCTION 

generally  considered  in  the  Argentine  as  marking  the  last  mile- 
stone in  the  epoch  before  the  advent  of  the  present  decline, 
which  is  signified  by  the  Europeanized  farcical  comedies. 
These  three  plays,  in  the  order  mentioned,  mark  three  steps 
of  sophistication  in  treatment  and  of  development  in  form. 

The  reader  who  has  come  so  far  with  me  may  have  observed 
what  must  have  seemed  to  be  a  contradiction  as  to  the 
authorship  of  the  play  Juan  Moreira.  This  I  may  be  able 
to  clear  somewhat  if  I  cannot  entirely  dispel  it. 

The  first  literary  record  we  have  of  Juan  Moreira  is  in  the 
novel  by  that  name  by  Eduardo  Gutierrez.  Mr.  Alfred 
Coester  makes  the  statement  that  Guti6rrez  then  dramatized 
one  of  the  episodes  in  his  own  novel,  and  that  tliis  dramatiza- 
tion was  put  on  the  stage  in  pantomimic  form  by  Podestd. 
On  the  other  hand  my  own  statement  that  the  dramatization 
was  made  by  Podestd  himself  at  the  suggestion  of  Poupy  is 
reinforced  by  Rodolfo  Fausto  Rodriguez  in  his  work,  Con- 
tribution al  estudio  del  teatro  national.  What  the  exact  fact  of 
the  matter  is  I  confess  I  do  not  know.  There  was  so  much 
informality  attendant  upon  the  earlier  gaucho  plays  that  in- 
stead of  records  we  have  conjecture,  and  instead  of  history  we 
have  surmise.  Most  of  these  plays  were  written  either  wholly 
or  partly  in  verse,  and  from  this  has  sprung  the  habit  of 
some  commentators  of  speaking  of  the  plays  as  "p060^-" 
That  would  be  well  enough  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  many 
of  the  plays  are  dramatized  versions  of  actual  poems,  which 
served  almost  as  substitutes  for  the  novel  in  the  earlier  days 
of  Argentine  literature.  The  result  is  that  the  original  poems 
and  the  later  plays  are  sometimes  hopelessly  confused. 

The  version  of  Juan  Moreira  which  I  have  used  in  this 
volume  is  by  Silverio  Manco  and  is  probably  simply  a  rewrit- 
ing of  the  old  material  or  a  transcription  of  the  old  play. 
The  original  play  was  never  printed,  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  ascertain,  and  doubtless  this  undated  version  by 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

Manco  represents  the  effort  to  reduce  the  Argentine  classic 
to  paper  for  the  first  time.  The  original  Juan  Moreira  con- 
tained two  acts  and  nine  scenes,  it  is  said.  Manco's  version, 
which  I  have  used  perforce,  contains  but  six  scenes,  and 
this  gives  rise  to  several  interesting  conjectures. 

In  all  probability  the  original  Juan  Moreira  was  a  fairly 
crude  piece  of  work.  If  Gutierrez  wrote  it,  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  novelist  and  not  a  playwright  would  explain  the  very 
shaky  construction  of  the  piece  from  a  dramatic  standpoint, 
while  if  Podestd,  did  the  work  the  fact  of  his  humble  origin 
and  subsequent  environment  would  likewise  explain  the  lack 
of  literary  polish  the  play  contains.  Both  these  suggestions 
are  made  on  the  supposition  that  Manco's  play  is  merely  a 
transcription  of  the  older  Juan  Moreira.  On  the  other  hand 
there  are  several  notably  weak  spots  in  Manco's  work  which 
may  be  accounted  for  most  easily,  whether  it  be  the  fact  or 
not,  by  remembering  that  this  play  is  three  scenes  shorter 
than  the  other.  Are  there  then  three  scenes  actually  missing 
from  this  version  or  is  this  an  entirely  new  play  responsible 
itself  alone  for  its  own  weaknesses  and  defects?  I  do  not 
know,  but  of  one  thing  I  am  assured,  and  that  is  that  Manco's 
play  is  very  faithful  to  the  original  poem  in  atmosphere,  color, 
and  general  trend.  Its  very  crudeness  of  dialogue  and  of 
action  leads  me  to  believe  in  its  close  resemblance  to  the 
original,  but  I  cannot  account  for  certain  deformities  of 
construction  or  for  the  three  missing  scenes.  For  instance: 

What  has  Juan  done  to  make  him  a  m-atrcro  or  gaucho  out- 
law? If  he  is  an  outlaw  and  in  fear  of  his  life  why,  then, 
does  he  return  and  put  his  head  in  the  noose?  And  why, 
when  Don  Francisco  has  every  reason,  apparently,  for  wishing 
Juan  out  of  the  way,  does  he  merely  have  him  beaten  and 
set  free?  Again,  there  is  absolutely  nothing  which  leads  up  to 
or  suggests  the  fact  of  Vicenta's  infidelity  until  the  direct 
accusation  comes.  It  would  certainly  seem  that  there  is 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

something  missing  here.  The  first  speech  of  Juan's  comes 
like  a  bolt  from  a  blue  sky,  without  rhyme  or  reason.  And 
then  Juan  follows  this  by  speaking  of  the  man  who  has  just 
left  Vicenta.  What  man?  We  hear  nothing  of  him  before 
or  after.  The  setting  for  the  last  act  or  scene  is  totally  un- 
explained. Where  is  this  "courtyard"  or  patio,  and  what 
are  the  persons  of  the  play  doing  there?  Where  did  Vicenta 
come  from?  Where  did  Andradc  come  from,  and  why  was 
he  found  bound?  In  truth,  there  are  so  many  questions  that 
might  be  asked,  and  so  many  discrepancies  which  are  un- 
accounted for  that  the  task  is  a  hopeless  one.  We  can  but 
take  much  for  granted,  and  read  what  we  are  able  to  find 
between  the  lines.  As  for  the  date  and  place  of  the  first 
production  of  the  play,  those  have  already  been  given.  What- 
ever else  we  may  say  of  the  Juan  Morcira  of  this  volume  we 
are  at  least  perfectly  safe  in  the  knowledge  that  it  is  faithful 
to  the  spirit,  if  not  to  the  letter  of  the  original.  And  after  all 
that  is  the  most  important  thing.  In  several  instances  I 
have  added  words  and  phrases  to  the  stage  directions, 
though  never  to  the  text. 

In  the  exact  and  literal  sense  Santos  Vega,  famous  as  it  is, 
is  not  a  drama  criollo  at  all.  The  play  was  written  by  Luis 
Bayon  Herrera,  a  young  Spaniard  living  in  the  Argentine. 
It  is  a  dramatized  version  of  the  poem  by  Obligado,  or  rather 
it  is  a  mixture  of  this  poem  with  the  old  native  legend  of 
the  payador.  Jean  Paul,  the  Argentine  critic,  in  his  book 
El  T calro  Argentina  questions  the  ability  of  Herrera  to  use 
the  dialect  of  the  gaucho  with  success,  but  there  is  certainly 
no  question  but  that  he  has  been  distinctly  successful  in 
imitating  the  older  dramas  criollos  both  in  form  and  in 
language.  It  is  a  better,  a  more  sophisticated  form,  lacking 
as  it  does  the  crudeness  of  the  old  gaucho  plays.  This 
simply  renders  it  more  artistically  worthy,  without  in  the 
least  violating  its  right  to  be  considered  as  a  drama  nacional, 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

if  not  exactly  a  drama  criollo.  Jean  Paul,  who  is  the  dramatic 
critic  of  La  Nacion,  the  principal  newspaper  of  Buenos  Aires, 
and  whose  name  is  Don  Juan  Pablo  Echagiie,  seems  to 
think  that  Juan  Sin  Ropa  (literally,  John  Without  Clothes) 
is  a  Spanish  conception,  and  indeed  goes  so  far  as  to  assume 
that  he  is  a  Spaniard  come  to  conquer  the  land  for  civilization. 
I  do  not  believe,  myself,  that  Herrera  intended  in  the  least 
any  political  allusion,  the  more  so  as  the  original  legend  states 
plainly  that  Santos  was  beaten  in  a  contest  with  Satan  and 
died  of  a  broken  heart.  True,  Obligado  in  his  poem  invests 
this  character  with  some  mystery  (Juan  finally  turns  into  a 
serpent,  and  coils  about  the  trunk  of  a  burning  tree)  and  calls 
him  by  the  extraordinary  appellation  of  Juan  Sin  Ropa. 
Herrera  has  simply  combined  these  two,  so  that  now  the 
Devil  and  Juan  Sin  Ropa  are  one  and  the  same. 

The  play  was  produced  for  the  first  time  on  June  5th,  1913, 
at  El  Teatro  Nuevo  in  Buenos  Aires.  The  audience  re- 
ceived it  most  enthusiastically,  and  it  at  once  became  an 
established  success,  and  passed  without  more  ado  into  the 
dramatic  literature  of  the  country. 

Herrera  has  employed  all  the  old  materials  of  the  gancho 
drama — the  descriptive  scenes  of  country  life,  the  singing 
contest,  the  fight  with  the  police,  and  the  heroic  patriotism 
of  the  gaucho — and  he  has  utilized  them  well  and  truly. 
The  theme  has  been  handled  by  others  in  various  forms. 
Jean  Paul  speaks  of  one  Hernandez,  and  Rodriguez  alludes 
to  a  dramatic  form  of  Santos  Vega  by  Nosiglia.  The  legend 
talongs  to  the  folklore  of  the  Argentine,  and  as  such  is  open 
to  use  by  every  one. 

The  translation  imitates  very  closely  the  original  Spanish, 
though,  as  is  often  necessary  in  translation,  the  actual  words 
have  sometimes  been  sacrificed  to  the  spirit  of  the  text.  The 
rhyme  scheme  is  exactly  like  the  original.  Most  gaucho  songs 
seem  to  be  sung  in  verses  of  ten  lines  each,  called  decimas,  and 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

rhymed  as  they  are  here.  Incidentally  it  may  interest  the 
reader  to  know  that  these  translations  have  been  tried  with 
gaucho  music,  and  it  has  been  found  that  they  fit  perfectly. 

It  is  needless  to  call  attention  to  or  to  attempt  to  apologize 
for  the  rhetorical  flourishes  with  which  Santos  Vega  is  adorned. 
The  love  scenes  may  seem  a  bit  flowery,  and  there  is  not  a 
little  of  bombast  from  time  to  time.  But  these  are  wholly 
in  character,  and  are  entirely  typical  of  the  country  and  the 
literature  of  their  origin,  and  to  the  one  who  views  them 
with  sympathetic  understanding  they  are  beautiful  rather 
than  otherwise,  if  only  because  of  their  earnest  sincerity. 
These  plays  are  totally  free  from  superficial  or  self-conscious 
attributes.  Of  course,  just  as  Juan  Sin  Ropa  is  symbolic 
of  the  Devil,  or  of  civilization,  or  of  both  (there  is  little  to 
choose  between  them)  so  is  Santos  Vega's  sweetheart, 
Argentina,  symbolic  of  the  land  of  the  rolling  pampas.  Santos 
and  Argentina,  the  gaucho  and  the  Argentine,  they  are  one, 
and  when  one  dies  the  heart  of  the  other  is  broken  forever. 

The  improvised  songs  of  the  gaucho,  with  which  Santos 
Vega  is  so  plentifully  adorned,  find  a  parallel,  albeit  a  rather 
crude  one,  in  the  chants  of  both  the  French  Canadians  and 
the  negro.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  verse  from  one  of  the 
old  Canuck  songs.  This  type  of  song  was  given  by  the 
director  of  the  dance  (I  do  not  know  how  to  designate  him 
otherwise),  and  was  often  sung  without  accompaniment  of 
any  kind  except  that  of  a  stamp  of  the  foot  and  a  clap  of 
the  hands  to  beat  out  the  time. 

"With  a  dee  and  a  dong,  and  a  diddy  iddy  dong, 
With  a  dee,  and  a  diddy,  and  a  dong! 
That  man  over  then-  in  zee  black  moustache, 
Balance  wiz  ze  couple  on  his  right! 
Ze  couple  below  do  just  ze  same — 
With  a  dee,  and  a  diddy,  and  a  dong!" 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

Mr.  Stuart  Walker  has  told  of  an  early  experience  of  his 
which  bears  some  relation  to  this. 

"Suddenly  I  heard  a  voice  singing  in  the  darkness:  'The 
linchpin  fell  out  of  the  chariot  wheel,  and  Pharaoh  he  got 
drowned!'  So  I  went  out  of  my  house  and,  looking  across, 
I  saw  a  great  fire,  and  seated  about  it  several  hundred 
negroes,  black  as  the  ace  of  spades,  and  seated  in  front 
of  the  fire  was  a  negro  king,  telling  this  story:  'And  the 
linchpin  fell  out  of  the  chariot  wheel,  and  Pharaoh  he  got 
drowned!'  And  he  was  acting  it  out;  that  is,  I  was  seeing 
a  ballad  made  right  before  my  eyes.  Presently  the  negroes 
in  the  crowd  took  the  story  up,  and  each  man  began  to  work 
it  out  in  his  own  way.  That  simple  story  lasted  fully  an 
hour,  each  man  interpreting  it  to  suit  himself.  You  could 
see  the  Egyptian  hosts,  and  you  could  see  the  chariot  wheels 
swerve  and  turn  in  the  sand." 

This  is  of  course  a  very  primitive  type  of  somewhat  the 
same  sort  of  thing  that  we  find  in  the  dramas  criollos,  but 
it  is  not  entirely  unconnected  with  it,  nevertheless. 

While  Santos  Vega  could  certainly  never  achieve  anything 
like  a  popular  success  on  our  own  stage,  partaking  as  it  does 
of  the  faults  of  its  virtues,  it  is,  on  the  other  hand,  sufficiently 
actable  to  suggest  the  possibility  of  putting  it  on  for  a  short 
run  as  an  interesting  and  worthy  example  of  a  somewhat 
rare  type  of  play.  It  has  as  much  right  to  a  place  in  our 
theater,  and  it  has  much  more  real  importance  as  drama,  than 
The  Bonds  of  Interest,  by  Jacinto  Benaventc,  which  the 
Theater  Guild  produced  for  a  limited  run  in  the  spring  of 
1919.  At  any  rate  it  would  be  a  fascinating  experiment. 

La  Montana  de  Brujas,  or  The  Witches  Mountain,  by  Julio 
Sanchez  Gardel,  was  presented  for  the  first  time  on  September 
13th,  1912,  at  the  Teatro  Nuevo  in  Buenos  Aires.  The  critic, 
Jean  Paul,  writing  of  it  at  the  time  of  its  production,  thought 
it  ''colorful,  but  not  very  real  drama  of  the  mountaineers," 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

He  liked  other  plays  by  the  same  author  better — Las  Cam- 
panas,  Despues  de  Misa,  Noche  de  Luna.  But  the  more 
popular  point  of  view  is  well  represented  by  Sr.  Alfredo  A. 
Bianchi  who  says  in  an  article  in  Nosotros,  "After  the  riotous 
success  of  La  Montana  de  Brujas  began  the  decadence  of  the 
national  theater."  Sr.  Bianchi  says  again  in  lamenting  the 
passing  away  of  the  national  drama,  "We  are  now  (1916) 
at  a  literary  cross-road.  The  playwrights  know  not  which 
way  to  turn."  But  almost  in  the  same  breath  he  remarks 
that  the  gaucho  has  left  the  stage  for  good,  and  that  it  is 
"good  riddance."  I  have, included  the  play  in  this  collection 
because  it  very  evidently  marks  the  turning-point.  It  was, 
in  fact,  the  last  good  play  of  the  period  of  the  national  drama, 
after  which  came  the  comedies.  Frequent  mention  of  the 
play  will  be  found  in  Argentine  dramatic  criticism  of  the 
day,  and  its  place  in  the  body  of  contemporary  drama  is  both 
strong  and  significant. 

As  is  not  unusual,  this  play  is  spoken  of  as  a  "dramatic 
poem,"  although  it  is  written  entirely  in  prose,  albeit  rather 
beautiful  prose.  As  I  have  remarked  before,  this  custom  is  a 
pitfall  for  the  unwary,  and  even  the  more  experienced  tracker 
in  the  jungle  of  Spanish-American  literature  may  have  cause 
to  regret  the  usage.  The  Witches'  Mountain  is  in  three  acts, 
there  is  no  change  of  scene,  and  but  one  day  is  consumed 
by  the  action.  In  construction  and  in  expression  it  is  far 
and  away  the  most  highly  developed  of  the  three  plays 
included  here,  and  it  should  be  readily  actable  on  any  stage. 

Tfw.  Wilchcs's  Mountain  is  not  a  gauclio  play  in  the  sense 
that  Juan  Moreira  and  Santos  Vega  are;  it  does  not  deal, 
so  far  as  I  know,  with  any  traditional  phase  of  life  in  the 
Argentine,  nor  is  it  based  on  any  legend.  Indeed,  whereas 
the  gaucho  is  the  habitant  of  the  pampas,  this  play  is  set 
in  the  mountain  country,  and  depicts  nri  even  more  isolated 
existence  than  that  of  the  plains.  It  is,  however,  thoroughly 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

atmospheric  and  colorful,  and  it  is  true  to  these  qualities.  It  is 
rugged,  brutal,  cruel  to  a  degree,  and  yet  it  is  far  from  crude. 
Don  Tadeo,  cursed  with  the  evil  eye,  and  his  vile  son  Daniel 
are  strange  types,  but  they  are  not  unusual.  Leon  is  in 
strong  contrast  to  these  two,  and  his  terrible  cry  at  the 
climax  of  the  play,  "Father  ...  I  am  the  condor!  I  am  the 
condor!  I  am  the  condor!"  is  not  at  all  far  removed  from 
the  ghastly  muttering  of  Oswald  in  Ibsen's  Gftosts.  ''Mother, 
give  me  the  sun  .  .  .  The  sun — the  sun."  Inda  stands 
between  these  two  elements  and  only  succumbs  to  Daniel 
when  she  has  been  drugged.  I  am  in  some  doubt  as  to 
whether  this  drug  is  supposed  to  represent  the  more  poetic 
love  potion  or  whether  it  is  simply  a  narcotic.  In  all  prob- 
ability, the  latter.  In  tin's  case,  however,  Indas  psychology 
in  the  last  act  becomes  rather  subtle,  but  it  may  be  more 
apparent  to  the  Latin  than  to  the  Anglo-Saxon.  The  finale 
of  the  play  is  excellent.  The  northern  dramatist  would 
probably  have  permitted  himself  either  to  save  Inda  alto- 
gether, if  he  could  not  save  Leon  with  her,  or  to  dash  both 
Inda  and  Daniel  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  of  the  gorge.  As 
it  is,  it  is  a  blank,  terrific  tragedy,  poignant  with  horror 
and  merciless  in  denouement.  Devoid  as  the  play  is  in  the 
original  of  the  patois  of  the  gaucho,  true  in  atmosphere,  and 
strong  in  dramatic  effect,  La  Montana  dc  Brujas  is  indeed 
a  fitting  climax  to  the  period  of  the  dramas  nacionales  and 
to  this  book  as  well. 

There  remains  little  more  to  be  said,  but  if  the  reader  has 
followed  me  so  far  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  his  patience  has 
at  least  been  rewarded  with  a  somewhat  better  understanding 
of  the  general  development  of  the  drama  of  a  great  country, 
and  of  one  of  its  more  peculiar  phases  in  particular.  The 
day  of  the  gaucho  is  past.  Juan  Sin  Ropa,  dressed  in  the 
gui.se  of  a  foreigner,  has  given  him  his  death-blow,  and  over 
his  fallen  body  Argentina  is  bowed  in  grief.  But  the  glory 


xlii  INTRODUCTION 

that  was  his  remains;  in  song,  story,  and  in  drama  he  has 
become  immortal.  His  dreams,  his  traditions,  and  the  legends 
that  surround  his  memory  will  not  succumb  to  the  attacks 
of  time  as  those  more  mortal  attributes  have  done,  for  they 
have  been  clothed  in  the  undying  body  of  art.  This  book, 
this  path-breaker,  is  most  notable,  perhaps,  for  what  it  has, 
perforce,  left  unsaid.  From  time  to  time  some  light  comes 
into  the  jungle  along  the  trail,  but  on  either  side  the  heavy 
trees  cast  their  shadows  for  many  miles.  In  the  past  those 
trails  which  were  cut  were  too  often  left  to  be  overgrown, 
but  I  have  ridden  for  hundreds  of  miles  through  South 
America  over  paved  trails  laid  down  by  the  conquistadores 
in  the  time  of  Pi/arro,  Cortez,  and  de  Soto.  It  is  well  that 
we  should  know  something  of  the  vast  civilization  which 
extends  south  of  our  own  borders,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  its 
intrinsic  value,  but  because  of  our  kinship  with  it.  We  may 
be  proud  of  it  not  solely  as  Argentine,  but  because  it  is,  as 
wr  are,  American. 

EDWARD  HALE  BIERSTADT. 

Nov.  1st,  1919. 

New  York  City. 


JUAN  MOREIRA 


BY  SILVERIO  MANCO 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA 

JUAN  MOREIRA,  an  humble  gaucho 

VICENTA,  his  wife 

JUANCITO,  their  son 

TATA  VIEJO,  an  elderly  gaucho 

DON  FRANCISCO,  Alcalde  of  Lobos  * 

JULIAN  ANDRADE,  Moreira's  friend 

SARDETI,  a  miserly  and  lying  -jndpero* 

A  SERGEANT  OF  THE  CONSTABULARY 

GAUCHOS,  GUITAR  PLATERS,  AND  CONSTABLES 


TITLES  OF  THE  SCENES 

ACT  ONE 

SCENE  ONE:  Injustice!  SCENE  Two:  Alone! 

SCENE  THREE:    In  the  Stocks 

ACT  TWO 

SCENE  FOUR:   Fatality!  SCENE  FIVE:    Dishonored! 

SCENE  Six:    Conquered! 

1  Alcalde  is  a  local  magistrate  corresponding  somewhat  to  justice 
of  the  peace. 

2  Pulpero:   a  sort  of  grocer. 


JUAN  MOREIRA 

ACT  ONE 

SCENE  ONE 

A  hut  with  a  door  and  a  window  in  the  background.  On  the 
right  a  table  upon  which  is  a  candle  stuck  into  the  neck 
of  a  bottle.  On  the  left,  a  cot.  In  the  center,  hugging 
the  fire,  are  VICENTA  and  TATA  VIEJO.  JUANCITO  is 
asleep  on  the  cot.  It  is  night. 

TATA  VIEJO.  It's  useless,  my  child;  when  everything  is 
against  you  and  misfortune  tosses  you  against  the  wall  on 
your  back  it  leaves  you  flatter  than  a  pancake. 

VICENTA.  Yes,  Tata;  when  I  married  Juan  I  thought  that 
all  my  troubles  were  at  an  end,  and  that  there  would  be 
nothing  but  joy  and  happiness  left.  But  it  wasn't  so.  [Weeps. 

TATA  VIEJO.  The  miserable  law  hounds  Juan  because  they 
think  he's  a  murderer.  [Weeps]  Bah!  I  wish  I  were  twenty  years 
younger — I'd  give  that  scoundrel  Don  Francisco  a  good  whip- 
ping. Poor  Juan!  Just  on  account  of  that  good-for-nothing 
he  must  hide  out  on  the  pampas  with  never  a  chance  to  kiss 
his  wife  or  hug  his  boy,  or  even  to  embrace  this  poor  old  man 
who  is  dying  of  sorrow  at  the  very  thought  of  him.  Curse  the 
law  for  treating  the  gauchos  of  the  Argentine  so  miserably! 

VICENTA.  Don't  remind  me  of  those  things,  Tata,  for  they 
hurt  me  terribly.  I'm  afraid  I'll  go  mad  with  despair.  Every 
time  Don  Francisco's  face  comes  to  my  mind  it  seems  as  if  I 

3 


4  JUAN    MOREIRA  ACT  i 

saw  my  poor  Juan  with  his  head  in  the  stocks.  Why 
couldn't  I  have  died  at  birth  instead  of  suffering  all 
this  unhappiness? 

TATA  VIEJO.  Very  well,  my  child;  call  Juancito  and  tell 
him  to  give  us  some  bitters  to  sweeten  our  sorrow. 

VICENTA.  Tata,  I'm  sure  the  police  will  kill  iny  Juan  and 
that  I'll  never  see  him  again. 

TATA  VIEJO.  Very  well,  I  say.  .  .  .  Call  the  boy.  Juan 
isn't  so  ungrateful.  He'll  try  to  give  the  police  the  slip,  and 
look  in  on  the  people  the  law  made  him  desert  in  order  to 
save  his  life.  Call  the  boy,  my  child. 

VICENTA.  [Rises  and  wakes  the  child]  Juancito!  Juancito! 

JUANCITO.  [Sitting  up]  Maniita! 

VICENTA.  Get  up!    You've  already  slept  too  long. 

TATA  VIEJO.  Yes,  little  puppy;  get  up  and  make  Tata 
Viejo  some  mat^.1 

JUANCITO.  [Getting  down  from  the  cot]  Where  is  my  papito? 

VICENTA.  Your  papito?  My  poor  boy!  Your  papito  has 
gone,  and  nobody  knows  if  he'll  ever  come  back. 

TATA  VIEJO.  Come  here,  little  puppy;  give  me  a  hug  and 
kiss,  and  then  go  to  the  window  and  ask  the  murmuring 
pampero  -  to  carry  them  both  to  your  papito. 

JUANCITO.  But  where  is  Papito? 

TATA  VIEJO.  Poor  little  puppy!  Come,  get  me  the  mate 
and  then  I'll  tell  you. 

JUANCITO.  No,  tell  me  now. 

VICENTA.  Don't  be  stubborn,  son.     Do  what  you're  told. 

JUANCITO.  All  right,  I'll  do  it.   [J/c  starts  to  prepare  the  mate. 

TATA  VIEJO.  My  heart  aches  so  I  can  hardly  stand  it.  I 
don't  know  why,  but  it  seems  to  tell  me  that  Juan  is  coming, 
and  .  .  .  who  knows  but  what  he  is? 

VICENTA.  I  don't  think  it's  possible,  Tata.     Besides,  he 

1  Mate:    the  Argentine  substitute  fur  ten. 

2  Pampero:    the  wind  on  the  pampas. 


ACTI  JUAN    MOREIRA  5 

would  have  sent  somebody  to  let  us  know  that  he  was  coming 
to  this  unhappy  place. 

TATA  VIEJO.  How  you  talk!  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  sur- 
prise us,  and  so  sent  no  messenger. 

VICENTA.  Hark!  I  hear  a  galloping  horse.  I  wonder  if 
it's  he? 

TATA  VIEJO.  Happy  little  puppy — here  comes  your  papito ! 

DON  FRANCISCO.  [Outside]  Since  you  have  had  the  temerity 
to  scorn  me,  Vicenta,  I'll  see  to  it  that  that  little  gaucho  of 
yours  comes  to  grief.  You  shall  stay  in  seclusion  with  neither 
his  love  nor  mine,  and  when  he  steps  out  to  meet  my  men  all 
his  reputation  as  a  brave  man  will  be  as  nothing  to  my  power 
for  revenge. 

VICENTA.  He!    The  traitor!    The  murderer! 

JUANCITO.  Mamita!    Mamita! 

TATA  VIEJO.  And  still  he  comes  to  mock  you;  the  dog! 

DON  FRANCISCO.  All  his  galloping  about  is  useless.  He 
can't  escape  me,  for  I  have  stretched  the  rope  for  him,  and 
he's  bound  to  get  tangled  up  in  it.  I  sha'n't  stop  until  he  is  in 
my  power.  I'm  going  to  catch  him,  and  then  he'll  pay  with 
his  body  for  the  way  you  have  insulted  me.  After  that  .  .  . 
you  shall  be  mine! 

VICENTA.  Tata! 

JUANCITO!  Mamita! 

TATA  VIEJO.  What  does  this  mean? 

VICENTA.  Tata,  I  am  dying  of  sorrow.  [Swoons  in  his  amis. 

TATA  VIEJO.  Vicenta,  my  poor  child  The  scoundrel  is 
already  avenged. 

DON  FRANCISCO.  [Entering  furiously  with  four  soldiers] 
Hush,  you  old  mule;  if  you  keep  on  braying  like  that  you'll 
find  yourself  in  the  stocks  alongside  of  Juan  Moreira. 

JUANCITO.  Please  don't  hurt  them! 

TATA  VIEJO.  All  this  bluster  won't  help  you  a  bit.  You'll 
pay  with  your  head  for  all  the  harm  you've  done.  Come 


6  JUAN    MORE1RA  ACT  i 

on,  then,  coward!    So  you  tremble  before  an  old  man?    It 
would  disgust  me  to  kill  you,  that's  why  I  don't  do  it.    But 
you'll  carry  something  to  remember  me  by. 
[He  attacks  DON  FRANCISCO.     The  soldiers  seize   and  hold 

TATA  VIEJO 

TATA  VIEJO  [Struggling]  Leave  this  house,  cowards!  .  .  . 
Dogs!    Would  you  harm  an  old  man?  .  .  . 

Rapid  Curtain 


SCENE  Two 

Open  country.  Trees  in  the  distance.  In  the  center  a  large 
ombu  with  abundant  foliage,  beneath  which,  recumbent 
upon  a  saddle,  is  JUAN  M ORE IRA.  He  is  deep  in  thought. 

MOREIRA.  Curse  the  luck!  Ah,  Don  Francisco,  Don  Fran- 
cisco! It's  useless  for  you  to  hound  me  this  way.  You'll 
have  a  hard  time  of  it  if  you  think  you  are  going  to  catch  me. 
Your  plans  are  bound  to  fail,  and  you'll  be  throttled  by  your 
own  vengeance.  Vicenta  is  too  strong  ever  to  give  herself 
into  your  arms,  for  your  love  disgusts  her  and  your  person 
inspires  her  with  a  mortal  hatred.  As  for  you,  you  dog,  the 
cause  of  all  my  misfortune,  it  won't  be  long  before  you'll  find 
yourself  spitted  on  my  dirk.  It's  through  you  that  I  have 
had  to  leave  my  son  and  Vicenta  and  dear  Tata  Viejo  who 
used  to  give  me  so  much  good  advice.  Bah !  A  gaucho  who 
is  born  honest  must  always  be  so.  The  curse  of  fate  is  always 
with  me;  the  wind  of  misfortune  tosses  my  black  locks;  the 
breeze  of  ill  luck  whines  past  me  in  a  fury,  leaving  contempt 
and  curses  in  its  wake.  Still,  I  must  ride  the  pampas  on  my 
good  nag  and  finish  like  a  man  what  is  in  my  heart.  Ven- 
geance lights  my  way,  and  I  must  drink  deep  of  it  in  order 
to  accomplish  mine  as  I  long  to  ...  hand  to  hand  and  face 


ACTI  JUAN    MOREIRA  7 

to  face  with  my  enemy.  Alone!  Alone!  Without  even  a 
friend!  The  neighing  of  my  horse  is  the  only  consolation  I 
have  in  my  sorrow.  Out  on  the  pampas  I  awake  at  dawn 
flat  on  my  belly  over  my  saddle,  and  watch  the  morning  come 
with  all  its  little  noises  and  the  glad  awakening  of  those  who 
are  happy  and  live  quietly  by  the  warmth  of  their  firesides. 
While  I,  a  poor  gaucho,  buffeted  by  fate  and  hunted  by  the 
police,  am  like  a  tree,  leafless  in  the  luxuriant  springtime  of 
life,  and  lashed  by  passing  winds  that  leave  upon  its  brow 
the  evil  mark  whose  curse  is  sculptured  there  as  the  sign  of  a 
murderer.  Yes!  The  law  pursues  me  merely  because  it  hap- 
pens to  wish  to,  and  if  tomorrow  I  should  become  a  real 
criminal  disgusted  with  this  wretched  existence,  the  law  alone 
would  be  to  blame.  For  it  was  the  law  that  drove  me  to  this 
road  where  only  sadness,  deception,  bitterness,  and  grief  are 
found.  Don  Francisco!  Don  Francisco!  [Weeps]  Eh?  I 
hear  a  horse  coming  this  way.  [Gets  up  in  surprise. 
Enter  JULIAN  ANDRADE  on  his  horse.  He  dismounts  and  ap- 
proaches JUAN 

ANDRADE.  Excuse  me,  friend,  and  don't  be  alarmed.  I  am 
no  spy  nor  policeman,  or  anything  of  the  sort.  I  am  a  poor, 
honest  gaucho  whose  only  fortune  is  a  stout  heart.  The  play- 
ful breeze  that  rustles  over  the  pampas  brought  to  my  ear 
the  whisper  of  a  great  grief,  of  a  deep  sorrow.  It  told  me  in 
its  mysterious  language,  in  accents  of  sorrowful  passion,  of 
the  sad  misfortune  of  a  humble  and  hard-working  gaucho. 
I  could  see  that  you  were  thoughtful  and  sad,  and  suddenly  I 
remembered  Juan  Moreira.  Aren't  you  Juan  Moreira? 

MOREIRA.  Yes,  my  friend,  I  am  Juan  Moreira.  I  am  that 
humble  and  hard-working  gaucho.  And  here  I  am,  in  the 
midst  of  this  great  plain,  this  bit  of  beautiful  pampa,  the 
cradle  of  my  most  sacred  memories.  I  am  a  fugitive  from 
justice  and  dodging  the  footsteps  of  the  constabulary. 

ANDRADE.  The  plague  take  the  law !    Because  of  it  one  has 


8  JUAN    MORE1RA  ACT  i 

to  fly  about  like  a  lost  dove.    Nowadays  the  police  frown  upon 
a  gaucho  because  they  think  he's  a  murderer. 

MOREIRA.  You  are  right,  my  friend.  The  confounded  law 
perverts  us  and  forces  us  toward  the  brink  of  the  abyss,  with 
never  a  thought  to  our  finer  feelings. 

ANDRADE.  Your  bitterness  moves  me.  From  now  on  you 
may  count  upon  me  as  a  friend  who  is  as  ready  as  the  stroke 
of  an  axe  and  stronger  than  tala  wood. 

MOREIRA.  Many  thanks,  good  friend.  I  accept  the  privi- 
lege because  I  see  that  you  are  honest  and  stout  of  heart. 

ANDRADE.  Julian  Andrade  offers  himself  to  you  as  a  brother. 
Come,  Moreira,  it  deserves  an  embrace.  [They  embrace. 

MOREIRA.  The  pampas  sleep  quietly,  and  everything  is 
hushed.  Probably  the  damned  police  are  preparing  a  trap. 

ANDRADE.  We'll  have  to  fight  them  until  we  either  win  or 
die;  and  we  must  have  the  courage  to  withstand.  We'll 
saddle  our  horses  that  are  pawing  the  ground  over  there  and 
get  ready  like  two  brave  horsemen. 

MOREIRA.  I  must  mount  and  ride  like  the  devil.  They 
must  be  waiting  anxiously  for  me  at  the  Alcalde's. 

ANDRADE.  [In  surprise]  At  the  Alcalde's? 

MOREIRA.  Yes;  Sardeti  will  be  missing  me. 

ANDRADE.  Sardeti? 

MOREIRA.  He's  my  enemy.  I've  brought  suit  against  him 
to  recover  some  money  that  he  has  owed  me  for  a  long  time, 
for  if  I  don't  get  it  I'll  never  be  able  to  live  in  peace. 

ANDRADE.  The  horses  are  whinnying,  Moreira.  Good-by, 
good  friend  Juan,  and  good  luck  to  you. 

MOREIRA.  We'll  meet  again,  comrade. 

ANDRADE.  I  leave  you  my  heart. 

[He  throws  himself  on  his  horse  and  rides  off. 

MOREIRA.  Until  we  meet  again,  my  friend.  [Looks  about 
him]  Alone  . . .  with  my  bad  luck  and  fatal  misfortune!  I  wish 
I  were  dead,  Even  the  grave  attracts  me.  Tata  Viejo! 


ACT  i  JUAN   MOREIRA  9 

Vicenta!  My  dear  little  puppy !  How  I  suffer! ...  How  un- 
happy I  am !  O  breeze  that  rustles  so  sweetly  over  the  pam- 
pas, go  tell  my  people  that  I  send  them  my  heart.  And  then, 
with  all  your  brave  cunning  whisper  to  that  traitor  that  the 
avenging  of  my  sorrows  will  be  all  the  more  terrible  for  this. 
[Lifting  his  hands  to  his  face,  he  falls  prostrate. 

Rapid  Curtain 


SCENE  THREE 

The  office  of  the  village  ALCALDE.  On  the  right,  tlie  stocks.1  On 
the  left,  down  stage,  a  table  with  writing  materials.  Further 
up  stage,  several  chairs  in  a  row.  A  door  in  the  background. 
DON  FRANCISCO  is  seated  at  the  table,  writing.  Two  CON- 
STABLES guard  the  door. 

DON  FRANCISCO.  Very  good.  Let  us  see  if  that  vile 
gaucho's  accusation  against  Sardeti  is  true.  I  pity  him  if  his 
testimony  proves  to  be  false.  Tears  and  supplications  will 
avail  him  nothing.  To  the  stocks  with  him,  and  that's  the 
end  of  it.  What  does  he  think?  Now  I'll  be  able  to  avenge 
myself  for  the  insult  he  gave  me  by  robbing  me  of  my  Vicenta's 
love.  I  shall  take  pleasure  in  revenge !  It  will  be  a  source  of 
real  satisfaction  to  be  able  to  take  revenge  on  this  vile  and 
quarrelsome  gaucho  who  struts  about  here  and  puts  on  more 
airs  than  a  fighting-cock.  [Consults  his  watch]  They  ought  to  be 
here  soon.  Yet,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  he  may  not  show  up. 
I  haven't  much  faith  in  the  fellow.  Sardeti  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
so  I  don't  think  he  will  miss  such  an  important  meeting.  [Some 
one  knocks.  To  the  constables}  See  who  it  is. 

A  CONSTABLE.  [Looking  out]  It's  Sardeti. 

DON  FRANCISCO.  Let  him  in. 

1  These  are  the  standing  stocks,  like  a  whipping-post. 


10  JUAN    MOREIRA  ACT  i 

Enter  SARDETI,  who  speaks  with  an  Italian  accent 

SARDETI.  Eef  you  please.     Hello,  Don  Francisco. 

DON  FRANCISCO.  Hello,  my  friend.  How  goes  it?  Take 
a  seat. 

SARDETI.  [Seating  himself]  We  are  half  mad. 

DON  FRANCISCO.  Why?    Tell  me. 

SARDETI.  Why?    Why  is  it  that  they  have  sent  for  me? 

DON  FRANCISCO.  Z  sent  for  you  because  the  gaucho  they 
call  Juan  Moreira  has  presented  himself  here  with  a  claim 
against  you  for  a  certain  sum  that  he  says  you  owe  him. 

SARDETI  [Excitedly]  That  is  a  lie,  Signor  Alcaldo.  I  owe 
to  this  man  a  sum  of  moneys?  No,  no!  That  is  a  lie,  and  I 
tell  you  so  again. 

DON  FRANCISCO.  Then  it  isn't  true  that  you  owe  Juan 
Moreira  ten  thousand  pesos? 

SARDETI.  Not  one  peso  I  owe  to  him ! 

DON  FRANCISCO.  [Shrugging]  But,  my  friend,  did  you  ever 
see  such  a  shameless  fellow?  To  come  and  laugh  in  one's  face. 
That  can't  be  done !  As  soon  as  the  insolent  wretch  comes  in 
we'll  stick  his  head  in  the  stocks  without  more  ado.  Friend 
Sardeti,  I  have  wanted  to  get  rid  of  this  fellow  for  a  long  time. 
He  has  offended  me  unpardonably,  and  has  left  a  tremendous 
wound  in  my  heart.  But  I  shall  be  avenged !  [A  knock  is  heard 
at  the  door.  To  the  constables]  See  who  it  is. 

A  CONSTABLE.  [Looking  out]  It's  Moreira. 

DON  FRANCISCO.  Let  him  in. 

Enter  MOREIRA 

MOREIRA.  [With  dignity]  A  very  good  day  to  you  all. 

DON  FRANCISCO.  [Sinoothly]  Sit  down,  friend  Moreira,  and 
tell  me  straight  why  you  came  to  tell  such  a  big  lie  in  respect 
to  the  suit  you  have  brought  against  Sardeti. 

MOREIRA.  Lie  nothing,  Don  Francisco!  Everything  I  said 
was  the  absolute  truth;  and  besides,  I  don't  think  an  honest 
gaucho  like  me  would  lie. 


ACT  i  JUAN    MOREIRA  11 

DON  FRANCISCO.  My  friend  Sardeti  here  tells  me  that  he 
owes  you  nothing,  and  that  he  was  consequently  very  much 
put  out  by  having  to  come  here  on  your  account. 

MOREIRA.  He  says  he  doesn't  owe  me  anything? 

SARDETI.  Not  one  peso ! 

MOREIRA.  [To  SARDETI]  Ah,  scoundrel!  So  you  refuse  me 
the  ten  thousand  pesos  I  loaned  you?  We'll  face  this  out 
later  if  my  luck  doesn't  kill  me.  Is  this  what  justice  is  made 
of?  Curse  the  justice  that  harbors  murderers  and  thieves! 

DON  FRANCISCO.  [To  SARDETI]  Very  good,  my  friend;  you 

may  go.  [To  MOREIRA]  As  for  you —  [To  the  constables]  Here, 

you!     To  the  stocks  with  this  man,  and  give  him  fifty  lashes. 

[MOREIRA,  struggling  desperately,  is  placed  in  the  stocks, 

and  is  whipped.     SARDETI  whispers  something  in  the 

ALCALDE'S  ear  and  then  departs. 

MOREIRA.  [Writhing  with  pain]  Ah!  Sardeti,  Sardeti!  You'll 
pay  your  debt  in  your  own  blood! 

DON  FRANCISCO.  Suck  on  that  for  the  present.     This  is 

the  way  we  shall  fix  you  so  you  won't  tell  any  more  lies  about 

persons  more  respectable  than  yourself.     You  may  go  now, 

and  if  you  have  any  hankering  after  more,  you  may  return. 

[MOREIRA  is  removed  from  the  stocks  and  prepares  to 

take  his  departure. 

MOREIRA.  [As  he  draws  his  shirt  over  his  bleeding  back]  You'll 
pay  me  for  this,  Don  Francisco,  and  that  soon.  We  shall 
meet  .  .  .  hand  to  hand  and  face  to  face! 

Rapid  Curtain 


ACT  TWO 

SCENE  FOUR 

SARDETI'S  pulperia.1  Several  GUITAR  PLAYERS  strum  their 
instruments.  SARDETI  is  behind  tJie  counter,  quietly 
smoking. 

SAKDETI.  Let's  see,  my  friend,  if  you  can  sing  the  good 
song. 

GUITAR  PLAYER.  If  my  first  string  doesn't  break — 
SARDETI.  How  can  it  break?     When  you  make  vibrate  the 
string  it  is  as  though  the  lark  of  the  pampas  were  singing. 
GUITAR  PLAYER.  I'd  hardly  say  that,  Sardeti. 
SARDETI.  Very  good.     Please  to  sing  me  the  pretty  verse. 
GUITAR  PLAYER.  All  right — as  long  as  you  put  it  that  way, 
I'll  give  you  the  pleasure  of  hearing  me,  comrade. 

SARDETI.  Do  not  wait  no  more,  comrade,  for  I  have  a  wish 
to  hear  the  lark. 

GUITAR  PLAYER.  Good!    Listen — [Sings] 

Good  gentlemen,  I  pray  give  ear, 
And  harken  to  this  sad  lament 
Which  from  a  heart  with  sorrow  spent, 
Arises  wet  with  many  a  tear. 
I  dedicate  it  to  all  here. 
This  song  is  born  in  sorrow  and  pain, 
With  never  a  thought  of  honor  to  gain. 
I  breathe  it  to  the  sound  of  .strings. 
A  novice,  I,  and  one  who  sings 
For  love  of  song,  to  entertain. 
1  Pulpcrfa:   a  small  country  grocery  store  of  tho  pampas, 


ACT  ii  JUAN    MOREIRA  13 

SARDETI.  That    is    the    lovely    melody.    Bring    on    the 
mazamorra.1 

GUITAR  PLAYER.  A  gaucho  of  the  Argentine, 
A  native  of  this  pampas  land, 
Belgrano  saw  me,  sword  in  hand, 
Defend  her  from  a  foe  unclean. 
But  since  that  time  I've  never  seen 
A  happy  day  or  happy  hour. 
A  cruel  fate  has  made  me  cower 
In  black  despair  and  bitter  grief: 
A  gaucho  treated  like  a  thief, 
I  languish  in  fate's  awful  power. 

SARDETI.  That  is  the  kind  of  a  song  I  like.    Help  yourself 
to  the  gin. 

GUITAR  PLAYER.  I'll  toast  you  without  more  ado.     My 
throat  is  dry  and  my  mouth  is  watering.  [He  drinks. 

SARDETI.  As  you  wish,  singer  .  .  .  you  are  wonderful. 

GUITAR  PLAYER.  Good!  .  .  .  Listen:  [Sings] 

I  roam  the  pampas  on  my  steed, 

And  seek  for  hospitality. 

And  where  I  go  my  hand  you  see 

Held  out  for  food  to  meet  my  need. 

At  festivals  I  oft  proceed 

To  sing  of  love  and  love's  sweet  story. 

And  so,  my  friends,  I  sit  before  ye 

And  crave  forgiveness  for  my  lay. 

No  singer,  I,  but  let  me  say 

If  you  don't  like  it  ...  well,  I'm  sorry! 

SARDETI.  You  have  sung  like  the  nightingale,  my  friend; 
winning  many  flowers  like  a  good  Creole. 

GUITAR  PLAYER.    Many    thanks,    comrade.      I'm    much 
obliged  for  your  flowers,  and  I  return  the  compliment. 
Enter  suddenly  JULIAN  ANDRADE  and  JUAN  MOREIRA 
1Mazanaorra:  a  sort  of  porridge. 


14  JUAN    MOREIRA  ACT  H 

ANDRADE.  Canejo!  Your  wail  has  given  me  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure.  I  congratulate  you,  my  friend,  with  all  my  heart. 

MOREIRA.  Comrade,  I  also  congratulate  you  as  an  honest 
Creole.  Bring  on  the  drinks;  I'm  dying  for  one.  Give  us  one, 
pulpero.  [SARDETI  serves  them,  trembling  with  fear. 

GUITAR  PLAYER.  As  a  cursed  outcast,  I  thank  you  for 
your  words.  I  offer  you  a  stout  and  devoted  heart. 

[They  all  drink. 

MOREIRA.  [Drawing  his  knife]  And  now,  excuse  me,  gentle- 
men, if  I  disturb  this  gathering.  This  man  [indicating 
SARDETI]  owes  me  a  debt.  Defend  yourself,  thief,  and  don't 
stand  there  cowering  with  fear!  I'm  going  to  cut  out  your 
entrails  for  a  thief  and  a  swindler. 

ANDRADE.  Say  no  more  to  him,  comrade;  I'll  watch  him 
from  behind.  Finish  this  pulpero  so  he  can't  do  any  more 
meddling. 

SARDETI.  [Preparing  to  fight]  We'll  do  our  possible.  No 
one  is  born  a  fighter.  But  it  is  just  possible,  amico  Moreira, 
that  the  cow  may  turn  out  to  be  the  bull. 

[They  fight  while  the  onlookers  watch  them  anxiously. 

MOREIRA.  It's  no  use  jumping  about  like  that,  my  dodder- 
ing old  fool.  Stop  this  one,  Sardeti,  it's  going  straight  for 
your  skin. 

SARDETI.  Cover  yourself  .  .  .  recommend  your  soul  to  the 
Holy  Mother,  Moreira.  [Stabs  him] 

MOREIRA.  Ahijunal  You've  stabbed  me,  you  really  have! 
Now  I  swear  I'll  cut  out  your  entrails!  [Stabs  him  and  SARDETI 
falls. 

SARDETI.  Farewell  .  .  .  you  have  killed  me!  I  have  no 
hope! 

ANDRADE.  Have  you  collected  your  debt,  Moreira,  my  friend? 

MOREIRA.  I  have  reaped  my  revenge! 

Rapid  Curtain 


ACT  ii  JUAN    MOREIRA  15 

SCENE  FIVE 

Same  as  Act  One.    TATA  VIEJO  and  JUANCITO  are  drinking 
mate.     It  is  night. 

JUANCITO.  Where  is  Mamita,  Tata?  Why  doesn't  she  come 
and  take  mat4  with  us? 

TATA  VIEJO.  I  can't  tell  you  exactly  where  she  is,  my  son, 
for  she  went  out  without  letting  me  know. 

JUANCITO.  I  asked  you  so  I  could  call  her  in  case  that  man 
who  struck  you  the  other  day  should  come  again. 

TATA  VIEJO.  Poor  little  puppy!  If  you  saw  me  in  danger, 
would  you  defend  me? 

JUANCITO.  Indeed  I  would!  That's  what  that  little  knife 
Papito  gave  me  is  for.  [Weeps]  Poor  Papito!  I  wonder  where 
he  is  tonight. 

TATA  VIEJO.  Hush,  my  boy  .  .  .  you  tear  my  heart. 

JUANCITO.  My  poor  papito!  [Pause]  But  why  doesn't 
Mamita  come? 

TATA  VIEJO.  Ah,  puppy!  While  your  father  is  probably 
fighting  some  one,  or  exposing  his  body  to  bullets,  your 
mother  is  whispering  in  some  old  hag's  ear  about  some 
medicines. 

JUANCITO.  Mamita  used  to  cry  a  lot  when  Papito  was  away. 
.  .  .  But  now  she  doesn't  seem  to  be  so  sorry. 

TATA  VIEJO.  That's  because  one  forgets  as  time  goes  on. 
Ah!  Don  Francisco,  Don  Francisco!  It  is  his  fault  that  your 
father  had  to  flee  for  his  life,  like  a  dove  without  a  nest, 
and  suffering  a  thousand  wants. 

Enter  JUAN  MOREIRA.    He  is  in  a  towering  rage 

MOREIRA.  Vengeance  has  escaped  me!  The  miserable 
scoundrels!  Tata!  Puppy!  [They  embrace. 

TATA  VIEJO.  My  sou! 


10  JUAN   MOREIRA  ACT  n 

JDANCITO.  Papito! 

TATA  VIEJO.  There  is  blood  on  your  hands!  What  have 
you  done,  Juan? 

MOREIRA.  Killed  a  swindler,  lawfully,  as  one  should  kill 
a  man  .  .  .  hand  to  hand  and  face  to  face. 

TATA  VIEJO.  You  killed—? 

MOREIRA.  Sardeti,  the  pulpero.  But  I  have  yet  another 
to  kill  to  make  my  vengeance  complete. 

TATA  VIEJO.  What  are  you  saying?    Still  more  killing? 

MOREIRA.  Don  Francisco,  the  Alcalde  of  Lobos  .  .  .  for 
not  treating  me  with  justice.     But  where  is  Vicenta? 
Enter  VICENTA  in  great  agitation.     In  a  panic  of  guilt  slie 
throics  herself  upon  her  knees 

VICENTA.  Forgive  me,  my  dear  Juan!  I  thought  you  were 
dead! 

MOREIRA.  [Starting  lack]  So!  You  have  deceived  me, 
canatta? 

VICENTA.  [Pleadingly]  No,  my  Juan! 

MOREIRA.  [Menacingly]  How  about  the  man  who  just  left 
you? 

VICENTA.  My  God!  [Swoons] 

MOREIRA.  Remorse  will  be  good  for  you.  Farewell,  Tata 
Viejo!  Farewell,  dear  little  puppy  mine!  The  police  are  on 
my  trail  and  will  be  here  before  long. 

TATA  VIEJO.  Mv  son!  ) 

\Linbracing  JUAN 
JUANCITO.  Papito!         ) 

MOREIRA.  {Putting  them  airay  from  him]  No!  I  must  go 
and  fight  the  police  until  I  conquer  or  die.  Farewell,  dear 
family.  [Throws  them  a  kiss  and  departs] 

TATA  VIEJO.  Puppy  .  .  .  come  to  my  arms!  [JUANCITO  em- 
braces him]  Let  us  weep  for  your  father,  shamefully  dishonored 
by  her,  your  mother. 

Enter  a  SERGEANT  and  four  CONSTABLES 

SERGEANT.  Juan  Moreira! 


ACT  ii  JUAN    MOREIRA  17 

TATA  VIEJO.  [Stepping  back]  Eh? 

SERGEANT.  [Looking  around]  He  must  be  hiding  here.  If 
he  doesn't  come  out  of  his  own  free  will,  we'll  have  to  drag  him 
out. 

TATA  VIEJO.  Please! 

SERGEANT.  It's  no  use.  Tie  this  old  man  up  and  see  to 
it  that  you  leave  marks  on  his  skin. 

The  CONSTABLES  seize  TATA  VIEJO. 

JUANCITO.  [Throws  himself  on  the  prostrate  body  of  his  mother] 
Mamita! 

TATA  VIEJO.  Savages!  Scoundrels!  Don't  treat  me  like 
this.  Draw  your  swords  and  let  me  die  fighting! 

[The  SERGEANT  raises  his  sword.  TATA  VIEJO  frees 
himself  and  grapples  with  him  a  moment  and  tlien 
fatts. 

Rapid  Curtain 


LAST  SCENE 

A  courtyard.  On  the  right,  the  entrances  to  two  houses.  On 
the  left,  up  stage,  a  well.  Along  the  background  stretches 
a  very  low  wall  of  adobe  above  which  one  catches  a  glimpse 
of  an  immense  plain.  Enter  the  SERGEANT  and  four 
CONSTABLES. 

SERGEANT.  Keep  a  sharp  lookout,  boys,  and  don't  slip! 
Moreira  must  have  fallen  into  the  river;  he'll  never  show  up 
around  these  parts  any  more. 

CONSTABLE.  Sergeant! 

SERGEANT.  What  is  it,  Chirino? 

CONSTABLE.  That  door  is  open.  Moreira  might  be  in 
there, 


18  JUAN    MOREIRA  ACT  n 

SERGEANT.  In  that  case,  to  arms! 

[They  enter  the  open  doorway  and  drag  forth  ANDRADE, 
bound  hand  and  foot. 

CONSTABLE.  We've  done  well! 

SERGEANT.  Not  so  much!  This  is  Julian  Andrade,  another 
wild  gaucho  and  a  very  good  friend  of  Juan  Moreira's.  He's 
probably  in  this  other  house.  Take  this  fellow  away. 

[The  CONSTABLES  remove  ANDRADE  and  then  return. 

CONSTABLE.  Shall  I  knock,  Sergeant? 

SERGEANT.  Knock,  and  then  be  ready  for  the  attack. 
[The  CONSTABLE  knocks.  MOREIRA  from  within  asks  who 
it  is]  Open  in  the  name  of  the  law,  friend  Moreira! 

MOREIRA.  [From  unthin]  Damn  these  Creoles!  If  you  come 
to  arrest  me,  you  won't  have  to  die  of  longing. 

He  dashes  suddenly  out,  fires  a  few  shots,  and  goes  back  again. 

SERGEANT.  You'd  better  surrender,  friend  Moreira.  It's 
no  use  hiding  in  there. 

MOREIRA.  [Re-enters,  carrying  VICENTA  in  his  arms.  lie 
thrmcs  lier  at  the  SERGEANT'S  feet]  Here's  something  to  amuse 
yourselves  with!  [Another  shot,  and  he  rushes  back  into  the 
house] 

VICENTA.  [On  her  knees  to  the  CONSTABLES]  Forgive  me  .  .  . 
please  ...  I  am  a  miserable  woman ! 

CONSTABLE.  [Warning  her  away]  Be  off  quickly,  Seiiora; 
they  may  burn  you  if  you  don't.  [VICENTA  runs  off. 

SERGEANT.  Again  I  tell  you  to  stop  fighting  and  surrender, 
my  friend.  [MOREIRA  returns  and  fires  again. 

MOREIRA.  Take  that,  you  thieves!  [They  all  discharge  their 
weapons.  The  CONSTABLES,  trembling  with  fear,  take  refuge 
behind  the  well]  The  storm  is  over,  the  clouds  have  rolled  away. 
Now's  the  time  to  cheat  the  cheaters.  May  God  show  me  the 
way.  .  .  .  Look!  Here  is  a  wall  with  which  I  can  save  my- 
self— my  only  hope.  [Starts  toward  the  wall  as  if  to  jump  over  it] 
As  soon  as  I  am  free  of  the  constables  I'll  make  for  the  open 


ACT  ii  JUAN    MOREIRA  19 

country.  [A  CONSTABLE,  rising  suddenly  behind  him,  stabs  him 
in  the  back]  Ah-h!  Farewell,  sweet  hope.  They 've  killed  me ! 
[Without  turning,  he  fires  a  shot  that  wounds  his  murderer  in  the 
eye  and  hand\  Ah!  .  .  .  Coward!  .  .  .  Traitor!  ...  It  is  unjust! 
Juan  Moreira  is  conquered  . . .  conquered  . . .  but  by  treachery ! 
[He  and  the  CONSTABLE  both  sink  lifeless  to  the  ground] 

Rapid  Curtain 


SANTOS  VEGA 

A  POETIC  EVOCATION  OF  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE 
FAMOUS  MINSTREL  OF  THE  PAMPAS,  IN  THREE 
ACTS,  FOUR  SCENES,  AND  A  PROLOGUE 

BY  LUIS  BAYON  HERRERA 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

THE  PROLOGUE 

ARGENTINA,  the  daughter  of  one  of  DON  PAULO'S  tenants 

VICENTA,  the  ranch  cook 

ROSA,  servant  at  "The  Light" 

ELVIRA,  DON  PAULO'S  wife 

RUFINA,  cook  at  "The  Light" 

SANTOS  VEGA 

GUMERSINDO,  an  old  gaucho 

CONTRERAS,  a  payodoT 

JACINTO    I 

RUPERTO  \gauchos 

CIRILO     ) 

JUAN  SIN  ROPA 

DON  PAULO,  the  patron 

A  SERGEANT  OF  THE  POLICE 

FIRST  SOLDIER 

SECOND  SOLDIER 

THE  PATRON  OF  "THE  LIGHT" 

FIRST  PEON 

SECOND  PEON 

A  PULPERO 

FIRST  GUITAR  PLAYER 

RANCHMEN,  GIRLS,  GUITAR  PLATERS 

The  action  takes  place  in  the  Argentine  during  the  early 
part  of  the  last  century. 

22 


THE  PROLOGUE 

[Spoken  before  the  curtain} 

Is  Santos  Vega  a  myth?  Did  he  ever  live?  Was  there  ever 
really  a  minstrel  by  that  name  who  roamed  the  pampas  on  the 
spirited  steed  that  he  himself  had  trained  with  all  the  skill 
of  a  gaucho?  Was  he  really  the  first  of  the  gaucho  singers? 
Was  this  minstrel  a  member  of  that  race  of  horse-tamers  who 
succumbed  to  the  march  of  Progress  with  a  song  on  their  lips? 
Or  was  he  purely  a  creature  of  the  imagination  of  an  idealistic 
race  who  knew  how  to  dream?  What  matters  it  as  long  as 
the  poet  dwelt  in  the  hearts  of  that  proud  race  who  created 
him  for  the  purpose  of  adoring  him  so  devotedly  afterward? 
Perhaps  the  wind  never  knew  his  song;  perhaps  no  maiden 
ever  gave  him  her  love:  but  of  him  dreamed  every  heart  of 
that  race,  noble,  virile,  bizarre.  .  .  .  Traces  of  the  singer  still 
remain  on  the  pampas:  at  night  his  glorious  guitar  still  weeps 
in  a  melancholy,  reminiscent  wail.  He  was  a  poet  who  came 
out  of  the  solitudes  to  join  his  grief  to  that  of  his  brothers. 
He  was  the  precursor  of  the  indomitable  countrymen  of 
Belgrano,  Guemcs,  and  La  Liber-tad.  He  was  the  poetry 
of  the  wide  pampas  land,  the  soul  of  a  gigantic  race  that  is 
dead.  Poetic  souls  still  tell  how  they  have  seen  the  sorrowful 
shadow  of  his  proud  figure  wandering  through  the  desert 
lands.  Singer  and  lover,  gallant  and  swaggerer,  a  song  on 
his  lips,  his  sorrel  between  his  knees,  his  guitar  on  his  back, 
and  his  dirk  at  his  belt,  he  was  as  bold  and  rebellious  as  a  new 
Satan.  He  of  the  great  fame,  our  beloved  singer,  is  not  dead: 
he  lives  in  our  hearts,  a  sorrowful  and  proud  emblem  of  the 

23 


past,  a  lyric  flower  of  our  glorious  tradition.  A  romantic  and 
courageous  figure,  beset  with  a  great  sorrow,  this  singer  is 
to  pass  through  this  fervent  evocation  which,  in  memory  of 
the  soul  of  our  beloved  minstrel,  a  wandering  and  poor 
maker  of  rhymes  hfls  sung  weeping  with  all  his  heart  and  soul. 
[When  the  prologue  is  finished  the  song  of  the  second 

act  is  heard  played  upon  a  guitar  and  the  curtain 

immediately  rises. 


ACT  ONE 

A  small  ranch.    Down  stage  on  the  right,  the  ranch  house. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  the  folloicing  are  discovered:  VICENTA, 

GUMERSINDO,    CONTRERAS,    ClRILO,    and    RUPERTO. 

VICENTA.  The  sun  hadn't  come  up  yet  when  I  went  out. 
I  saw  him  go  by  long  before  the  day's  work  had  begun.  He 
was  riding  the  best  horse  I  ever  set  eyes  on — a  sorrel  that 
was  as  swift  as  the  wind.  You  needn't  think  I'm  lying,  or 
that  I  imagined  it,  either.  He  was  going  so  fast  you'd  think 
he  was  running  a  race  with  the  wind !  He  must  have  been  a 
singer  because  he  carried  a  guitar  with  pretty  decorations 
on  it. 

GUMERSINDO.  He  was  probably  a  payador  on  his  way  home. 

JACINTO.  [Coming  out  of  the  house  in  a  bad  humor,  and 
crossing  to  VICENTA]  When  are  we  going  to  have  mate"? 

VICENTA.  Is  the  lad  in  such  a  hurry  for  his  mate?  I'm 
just  about  to  make  it. 

JACINTO.  Go  tend  to  your  stove,  then! 

VICENTA.  How  gentle  he  is  this  morning! 

JACINTO.  I'm  no  priest  that  I  must  pray! 

VICENTA.  Wait  till  I  feel  like  it,  then. 

JACINTO.  You'll  feel  like  something  else  in  a  minute! 

GUMERSINDO.  Come,  you  two  have  fought  long  enough. 

JACINTO.  Hurry  up  with  that  mate! 

VICENTA.  He  isn't  even  the  patron  .  .  .  and  listen  to  the 
way  he  orders  me  around!  What  if  he  got  to  be  the  Major! 

JACINTO.  I'd  have  you  pegged  out  on  the  ground  .  .  .  only 
I'm  a  gaucho  and  can't. 

25 


26  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

VICENTA.  [As  she  goes  off  up  siage]  Ugh!  I'm  going  because 
he  frightens  me,  and  because  he  would  cut  me  to  pieces  if  I 
didn't! 

RUPERTO.  Don't  you  suppose  Vicenta  dreamed  all  that 
about  the  horseman? 

CIRILO.  According  to  her  she  never  saw  a  faster  horse. 

RUPEBTO.  She's  never  seen  my  race-horse,  then. 

JACINTO.  Of  course  not! 

RUPERTO.  There  isn't  another  like  it,  I  tell  you!  You 
won't  find  a  better  or  a  prettier  piebald  in  the  world. 

CONTRERAS.  He's  the  finest  animal  on  the  pampas. 

RUPERTO.  You're  right  there.  Why,  he's  the  king  of  the 
braves!  Even  the  cleverest  and  best  gauchos  can't  beat  me 
in  a  race. 

CONTRERAS.  Is  that  so! 

CIRILO.  How  queer! 

RUPERTO.  For  a  whole  year  now  not  a  single  person  would 
run  his  horse  alongside  of  my  piebald  .  . .  that's  a  fact .  . .  not 
a  single  soul ! 

CIRILO.  Well,  well! 

JACINTO.  They  are  afraid  to  lose.  Have  you  got  the 
bottle? 

RUPERTO.  Of  course  I  have! 

JACINTO.  Then  hand  it  over  before  I  take  it  from  you. 

RUPERTO.  With  great  pleasure,  my  friend;  but  be  careful, 
for  whenever  you  bend  your  elbow  your  arm  goes  to  sleep. 

JACINTO.  Is  that  so? 

RUPERTO.  May  I  drop  dead  if  it  isn't! 

JACINTO.  Then  I  won't  drink. 

RUPERTO.  Don't  be  a  fool — take  it.  But  be  careful  .  .  . 
stay  awake! 

JACINTO.  Good  advice! 

RUPERTO.  I  don't  say  it  to  be  funny,  but  my  throat  is  dry 
after  talking  so  much  about  my  horse. 


ACT  i  SANTOS    VEGA  27 

JACINTO.  (After  drinking  discreetly]  What  do  you  say  to  that? 

RUPERTO.  It's  gone! 

JACINTO.  Got  some  tobacco? 

RUPERTO.  Yes,  I've  got  that,  too.    Take  the  plug. 

JACINTO.  And  the  tools? 

RUPERTO.  I'll  give  them  to  you. 

GUMERSINDO.  Generous  to  the  death! 

CONTRERAS.  The  way  he  was  going  on  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  ask  for  some  saliva — 

JACINTO.  Don't  be  nasty  .  .  . 

CONTRERAS.  To  spit  with! 

RUPERTO.  He  can  have  that,  too,  if  he  wants  it. 

JACINTO.  [Angrily]  Your — 

RUPERTO.  [Interrupting  him  angrily]  And  yours,  too,  you 
thief!  Give  me  back  that  tobacco  and  never  speak  to  me 
again ! 

JACINTO.  All  right!  Don't  get  angry.  Take  your  plug, 
brave  boy.  I'll  give  you  back  your  brandy,  too,  if  you  want 
me  to  throw  it— 

RUPERTO.  You'd  better  get  out,  and  right  now — or  the 
dunghill  .  .  , 

JACINTO.  [Drawing  his  knife]  Right!  A  plague  take  your 
dung!  Pull  out  your  knife  and  be  quick  about  it.  No  thief 
can  shout  at  me  for  nothing! 

CONTRERAS.  Pst!    The  patron! 

{They  all  compose  themselves. 

DON  PAULO.  {Appearing  in  the  doorway  of  the  house]  Jacinto, 
go  saddle  mj  fastest  horse. 

JACINTO.  {Aside,  to  RUPERTOJ  You're  lucky,  my  friend! 
I  was  just  about  to  cut  you  to  pieces. 

DON  PAULO.  What  did  you  say? 

JACINTO.  Nothing. 

DON  PAULO.  First  go  to  the  near-by  village  and  give  this 
letter  to  my  brother.  Then,  without  a  moment's  delay,  hurry 


28  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

to  the  Major's  house  and  tell  him  to  call  out  his  soldiers  at 
once. 

GUMERSINDO.  .A  "e  we  going  to  have  an  Indian  uprising? 

DON  PAULO.  Would  it  surprise  you?  [To  JACINTO]  Hurry 
and  saddle  up. 

JACINTO.  [As  he  goes  out]  With  all  speed,  Patron. 

[Exit  DON  PAULO. 

CIRILO.  Don  Paulo  seems  gloomy  these  last  few  days. 

GUMERSINDO.  He  isn't  a  very  happy  man.  You  see, 
you're  a  new-comer  in  these  parts  and  you  don't  know  the 
reason  for  it.  Don  Paulo  lost  his  daughter  in  the  last  up- 
rising. 

CIRILO.  Was  she  killed? 

CONTRERAS.  She  is  still  alive. 

CIRILO.  But — 

GUMERSINDO.  Wait  till  I  tell  you.  An  Indian  chief  carried 
her  off,  and  now  she's  a  captive  on  the  pampas.  Now  you 
can  understand  why  he  is  so  desperate  with  grief  and  goes 
about  looking  so  sad. 

CIRILO.  Poor  Don  Paulo!    How  awful! 

RUPERTO.  Don  Paulo  is  as  strong  and  hard  as  rock.  But 
you  ought  to  see  the  mother!  She  runs  around  yelling  like 
mad  for  death. 

CONTRERAS.  And  every  now  and  then  she'll  rush  out  and 
yell  at  us,  "Can't  you  see  that  the  Indians  are  coming?" 

GUMERSINDO.  That's  a  natural  result  of  her  madness. 
Just  visions.  She  has  been  seeing  Indian  attacks  ever  since 
that  awful  day. 

CIRILO.  What  was  it  like? 

CONTRERAS.  \Vho  saw  it? 

RUPERTO.  They  say  they  were  nearly  all  lost. 

GUMERSINDO.  [Showing  a  wound  on  his  right  arm]  I  wasn't. 
This  wound  will  swear  to  that!  It's  a  remembrance  of  a 
stab  with  a  pike  that  I  got  ,in  the  fight.  Listen  and  I'll 


ACTI  SANTOS   VEGA  29 

tell  you  about  the  attack  the  Indians  made  on  us  that 
night. 

CIBILO.  Out  with  it! 

[They  gather  around  the  old  gaucho  and  listen  with 
interest  to  the  following  story,  which  he  tells  with 
great  emotion. 

GUMERSINDO.  There  have  been  few  Indian  fights  as  fierce 
as  that  one.  It  is  the  saddest  memory  I  have  in  my  life.  So 
don't  be  surprised,  my  friends,  if  I  cry  a  little  when  I  talk 
about  it.  To  make  matters  worse,  the  moon  made  every- 
thing as  bright  as  day.  If  it  hadn't  been  a  beautiful  clear 
night  I  never  could  have  seen  that  Indian  carry  off  the  pret- 
tiest flower  in  the  country.  On  other  nights  as  beautiful  as 
that  you  might  have  heard  our  songs  and  the  sweet,  sad 
strumming  of  our  poor  guitars  in  the  calm  silence  of  the 
pampas.  Since  that  night,  however,  our  guitars  have  not 
sounded  the  same  and  our  verses  are  not  like  those  we  used 
to  make.  All  the  good  in  us  was  carried  off  on  the  spears  of 
the  savages.  That  night,  when  we  were  all  eating  supper 
after  a  hard  day's  work,  the  dogs  all  suddenly  began  to  growl 
at  once.  I  was  the  first  to  notice  it.  It  was  like  an  evil 
omen  warning  us  that  something  was  disturbing  the  quiet 
slumber  of  the  pampas.  I  rushed  to  the  door  of  our  quarters. 
The  country  was  bathed  in  silver;  and  up  there  beneath  the 
stars  was  the  large  white  moon.  In  the  distance  I  could  see 
very  clearly  why  the  dogs  were  growling.  It  was  the  Indians! 
Full  tilt  they  came — like  a  sudden  cloud  on  a  stormy  night 
driven  by  a  hundred  winds — on  horses  as  fast  as  the  wind,  if 
not  faster.  I  could  hardly  see  them,  they  were  so  far  away, 
and  there  was  so  much  dust  from  the  horses'  hoofs,  but  I 
could  already  hear  their  shrieks.  It  was  horrible,  friends,  to 
see  them  coming,  faster  than  it  takes  to  tell.  They  came 
like  shots  out  of  a  gun !  Next  I  could  see  their  spears  sticking 
out  above  the  dust  cloud,  I  began  to  hear  even  the  tinkling 


30  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

of  the  little  bells  fastened  to  the  horses'  foreheads.  They 
charged  in  a  half-moon  as  usual,  led  by  an  Indian  as  big  as 
a  bull.  I  judged  by  his  looks  that  he  was  the  chief,  or  the 
devil — for  his  face,  which  I  could  see  as  he  came  nearer,  was 
horrible  to  look  on.  I  barely  had  time  to  raise  the  alarm. 
Everything  happened  like  lightning.  When  they  heard  me 
shout,  the  ranchmen  jumped  on  their  horses  and  went  out 
like  a  lot  of  brave  fellows  to  open  a  breach  in  that  wall  of 
lances — and  there  must  have  been  five  hundred  of  them! 
I  confess  my  legs  trembled  as  I  jumped  on  my  horse.  I 
didn't  see  much  of  what  went  on.  I  fought  with  my  knife, 
and  came  near  losing  my  life  many  times.  At  last  I  opened 
up  a  breach!  Just  then  I  heard  a  scream  that  was  like  a 
stab  in  the  heart,  for  I  knew  whose  it  was.  Our  little  patron- 
cita  was  being  dragged  off  by  her  precious  hair  between  two 
ferocious  Indians!  Friends!  If  all  the  lances  the  savages 
carried  that  night  had  been  stuck  into  my  body  at  one  time 
I  wouldn't  have  suffered  as  much  as  I  did  when  I  saw  that 
little  girl  dragged  off  like  a  rag  and  half  covered  with  blood. 
I  could  do  no  more  after  that.  I  was  blinded  by  grief. 
Though  the  danger  was  great,  I  hardly  knew  what  was  going 
on.  Suddenly  a  big  Indian,  the  same  who  was  leading  the 
others  when  they  made  the  attack,  ordered  them  to  drop  the 
poor  child.  Then  he  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  her.  He 
must  have  l>een  thinking  how  pretty  she  was,  for,  just  as  she 
was — half  dead  from  pain  and  fright — he  threw  her  across 
his  horse's  back  and  rode  off  like  a  streak  of  lightning.  He 
knew  he  was  carrying  off  a  prize!  Bah!  She  was  the  soul 
of  the  ranch,  the  flower  of  this  house  that  is  so  sad  now  that 
she  has  gone!  She  is  worse  than  dead  now.  She  is  in  the 
desert,  on  the  pampas.  Our  poor  patroncita!  She  was  so 
pretty,  so  happy  here  where  every  one  petted  her  . . .  and  that 
is  why  her  mother  is  raving  mad,  and  why  Don  Paulo  is  so 
gloomy.  And  that  is  why  our  poor  guitars,  now  that  she  is 


ACT  i  SANTOS   VEGA  31 

not  here  to  listen  to  them,  do  not  sound  as  they  used  to. 
Everything  went  with  her.  Without  her,  everything  seems 
empty. 

CIBILO.  Don't  tell  me  any  more,  my  friend.  I'm  too  strong 
to  cry,  but  you  bring  tears  to  my  eyes. 

GUMERSINDO.  That's  right:  weep  with  me.  Tears  are 
good  for  you.  They  bring  peace.  When  there  is  sorrow  in 
your  heart,  they  comfort  it.  Our  sorrows  leave  us  with  our 
tears,  and  flowers  grow  where  there  were  only  thorns.  If 
any  one  boasts  to  me  that  he  has  never  wept,  I  tell  him 
that  brave  men  weep  more  than  cowards:  for  a  dirk  is  as 
useless  against  a  heart  torn  with  grief  as  it  is  against  a 
storm. 

CIRILO.  Canejol  But  you  say  beautiful  things! 

GUMERSINDO.  And  everything  I  say  is  true.  For  even  the 
devil  isn't  wise  just  because  he  is  the  devil,  but  because  he  is  so 
old! 

[At  this  moment  there  comes  a  scream  of  terror  from  the 
interior  of  the  ranch  house  that  alarms  the  ranchmen. 

CIRILO.  What  was  that  scream? 

RUPERTO.  Here  she  comes,  half  crazy! 

ELVIRA.  [Off  stage,  screaming  with  terror]  Quick — here  come 
the  Indians! 

CONTRERAS.  She's  got  her  knife  in  her  hand! 

GUMERSINDO.  You  men  had  better  hold  her.  She'll  hurt 
somebody  if  you  don't. 

CONTRERAS.  The  first  one  who  can  had  better  disarm  her. 
[ELVIRA  runs  from  the  house,  knife  in  hand.     Her  face 
is  haggard  and  her  eyes  are  staring. 

GUMERSINDO.  [As  she  appears}  Now!  [They  hold  her. 

ELVIRA.  [Struggling  to  release  herself]  Let  me  go! 

CIRILO.  [Attempting  to  disarm  her]  One  minute! 

DON  PAULO.  [Entering  in  alarm]  Take  her  knife  away, 
quick! 


32  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

ELVIRA.  [Terrified]  But  aren't  the  Indians  coming? 
CIRILO.  [Avoiding  a  thrust  which  ELVIRA  has  made  at  him 
and  disarming  her]  I  nearly  got  it  that  time! 
GUMERSINDO.  Don't  be  frightened,  Patroncita. 
CONTRERAS.  The  Indians  aren't  really  coming. 
ELVIRA.  [Sobbing]  I  want  to  go  into  the  desert  and  make 
them  give  up  my  daughter. 
DON  PAULO.  Will  you  take  her  in,  please? 
ELVIRA.  [Resisting]  No,  no!    Let  me  go! 
GUMERSINDO.  Come,  Patroncita! 
DON  PAULO.  [Pleading  with  her]  Elvira! 
ELVIRA.  Give  me  my  knife.     I  want  to  go  after  her. 

[Two  of  the  ranchmen  succeed  in  getting  her  into  the 
house.     After  a  short  pause  tlicy  return  to  the  stage, 
deeply  moved. 
GUMERSINDO.  She'll  die  of  sorrow. 

[And  as  if  to  interpret  the  anguish  of  the  moment,  the 
voice  of  SANTOS  VEGA  is  heard  in  the  distance,  singing 
the  following: 

SANTOS.  Ah!    Fire  and  sorrow  are  the  same! 
They  both  most  cruelly  torment, 
And  never  cease  their  evil  bent 
While  there  is  aught  to  feed  the  flame. 

[Their  curiosit;/  is  aroused  on  hearing  his  voice. 
GUMERSINDO.  [Thoughtfully]  What  a  beautiful  voice! 
VICENTA.  [Entering  joyously]  There's  my  horseman!     He's 
just  arrived.     What  a  horse,  what  a  guitar,  and  what  a 
singer! 

SANTOS.  [His  voice  sounds  nearer.     A  plaintive  melody] 
An  errant  singer  I,  one  who 

Through  wandering  seeks  relief  in  vain 
From  memory  of  love's  sweet  pain 
That  ever  does  his  life  pursue. 
So  if  I  sing  of  grief  to  you, 


ACT  i  SANTOS   VEGA  33 

Be  not  surprised;    and  as  I  sing, 
If  tears  to  these  dim  eyes  I  bring, 
They're  drops  of  blood  that  my  poor  heart 
Has  wept.     Such  is  my  singer's  art, 
That  drops  from  bleeding  hearts  I  wring. 
RUPERTO.  That  song  is  a  prize! 

GUMERSINDO.  I've  heard  a  good  many  singers,  but  he's 
the  best  of  them  all! 

CONTRERAS.  You  are  pretty  quick  to  judge,  old  man.     It's 
easy  enough  to  sing  like  that  and  not  make  a  mistake.    But 
it's  a  different  matter  altogether  when  you  are  sitting  face 
to  face  with  a  rival  in  a  contest. 
GUMERSINDO.  I  know  it  is.    Don't  be  offended. 
VICENTA.  [Disdainfully]  He's  trying  to  make  comparisons. 
CONTRERAS.  Nobody  has  ever  been  able  to  beat  me  when  I 
started  out  to  sing.     Remember  that,  old  busybody,  and  stop 
tormenting  me. 

VICENTA.  You  are  the  one  who  does  the  tormenting — when 
you  play  that  old  guitar  of  yours. 

SANTOS.  [Still  off  stage,  and  singing  to  the  same  melody] 
My  lips  are  but  a  gaping  wound; 
My  songs  its  ebbing  flow  of  blood; 
My  verses  are  the  passionate  flood 
Of  sorrows  in  my  soul  profound. 
My  songs  are  moans;    they  do  not  sound 
As  do  a  happier  singer's  lays. 
'Tis  so  because  my  heart  betrays 
The  heavy  burden  of  its  grief. 
And  so  to  find  a  sweet  relief 
I  sing  these  songs  through  endless  days. 
GUMERSINDO.  Who  is  that  payador? 
ARGENTINA.  [Who  has  entered  a  moment  before]  Have  I  not 
heard  that  voice  before? 
CIRILO.  Nobody  ever  sang  like  that ! 


34  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

VICENTA.  And  he  never  sang  better. 

ARGENTINA.  [Emotionally]  I  dreamed  of  love  last  night.  I 
dreamed  that  there  was  once  a  singer  who  was  dying  for  want 
of  some  one  to  love;  and  that  instead  of  weeping  from  the 
pain  of  his  torment,  he  sang  of  his  despair  in  verses  so  full  of 
feeling  that  they  brought  tears  to  my  eyes.  And  then  I 
dreamed  that  I  crept  to  his  side  and  wept,  and  that  he 
kissed  my  hair  and  dried  my  tears  and  grew  to  love  me. 
And  from  that  time  on,  according  to  my  dream,  he  no 
longer  sang  of  his  grief,  because  it  had  left  him,  but  of 
his  newly  discovered  joy. 
RUPERTO.  Here  he  comes! 

VICENTA.  And  with  all  the  peons  on  the  place  trooping 
after  him  like  a  drove  of  cattle! 
SANTOS.  [Sings:  his  voice  very  near] 

The  pampa  is  my  native  land, 
In  all  its  great  immensity. 
My  greatest  wish  shall  ever  be 
To  force  my  heart  to  my  command, 
That  I  may  dwell  in  peace.     I  stand 
For  Liberty;   my  law's  my  knife; 
My  life  is  naught  but  pain  and  strife; 
My  soul  is  but  a  wounded  dove 
From  so  much  suffering — and  love. 
To  sing,  then,  is  my  lot  in  life. 

[As  he  sings  tJie  last  two  lines,  the  famous  singer  of  the 
pampas  enters,  mounted  on  a  spirited  sorrel,  his 
yuitar  slung  across  /zw  back,  his  dirk  in  its  sheatfi, 
and  a  charming  smile  upon  his  lips.  Various 
ranchmen  and  peons  follow  him,  applauding  in 
admiration.  lie  seems  to  produce  happiness  all 
about  him. 

GUMERSINDO.  God  give  good  health  to  the  payador! 
SANTOS.  Good  health  to  you  all! 


ACT  i  SANTOS   VEGA  35 

VICENTA.  Tell  us  what  good  wind  brought  us  such  a 
wonderful  singer?  I  am  old,  but  I  never  heard  a  better 
one. 

GUMERSINDO.  Be  sure  to  let  us  know  if  you  need  anything. 
We  never  refuse  a  favor  to  any  one  in  this  place — much  less 
to  a  singer. 

SANTOS.  My  good  old  friend!  I  like  that,  and  I  thank 
you  all.  But  as  I  deserve  nothing,  you  may  save  your 
hospitality  for  a  more  needy  occasion.  I  swear  I  shall 
never  in  my  life  forget  the  reception  you  have  given 
me  at  this  ranch.  And  now,  to  answer  your  first  ques- 
tion, let  me  say  that  in  this  adventurous  life  of  mine,  the 
thing  I  like  best  of  all  is  not  to  know  where  I  am  going 
or  whether  I'll  get  there.  I  don't  know  where  I  was 
bound  for  this  time,  but  here  I  am,  and  purely  by  chance. 
I  am  like  the  birds  that  fly.  I  tell  my  troubles  in  sad 
songs  to  the  winds  because  it  strengthens  me  to  sing  them 
and  comforts  me  to  hear  them.  [He  sings. 

An  errant  singer  I,  one  who 

Through  wandering  seeks  relief  in  vain 
From  memory  of  love's  sweet  pain, 
That  ever  does  his  life  pursue. 
So  if  I  sing  of  grief  to  you, 
Be  not  surprised;    and  as  I  sing, 
If  tears  to  these  dim  eyes  I  bring, 

They're  drops  of  blood  that  my  poor  heart 
Has  wept.     Such  is  my  singer's  art, 
That  drops  from  bleeding  hearts  I  wring. 

My  lips  are  but  a  gaping  wound; 

My  songs  its  ebbing  flow  of  blood; 

My  verses  are  the  passionate  flood 
Of  sorrows  in  my  soul  profound. 
My  songs  are  moans,  they  do  not  sound 


36  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

As  do  a  happier  singer's  lays. 
"Pis  so  because  my  heart  betrays 

The  heavy  burden  of  its  grief. 

And  so  to  find  a  sweet  relief 
I  sing  these  songs  through  endless  days. 

My  only  joy  and  truest  friend 

I  find  in  my  well-tuned  guitar. 

Within  its  silver  strings  there  are 
Sweet  melodies  that  melt  and  blend 
And  stay  with  me  until  the  end. 
Without  its  solace  I  should  die. 
I  taught  it  first  to  sing,  yes,  I, 

And  then  to  weep  and  suffer  pain; 

And  when  I  pass  away  I  fain 
Would  have  it  with  me  where  I  lie. 

My  knife's  as  strong  as  steel  can  be, 

And  so  it  never  knows  defeat. 

To  strike  it  is  both  sure  and  fleet. 
It  never  wounds  unlawfully, 
And  never  kills  in  treachery. 
It  holds  my  liberty  and  fate, 
And  keeps  them  both  inviolate. 

Whene'er  it  strikes  'tis  always  just, 

But  when  it  kills,  it  kills  with  lust: 
Though  loyally  and  without  hate. 

As  much  my  own,  my  sorrel  steed, 
As  I  the  pampas'  heart  and  soul. 
There  never  was  a  shapelier  foal, 

Nor  animal  of  swifter  breed. 

And  where  he  wills  I  let  him  speed. 


ACT  i  SANTOS   VEGA  37 

His  way  is  my  way;    where  he  goes 

Go  I:   our  wills  are  never  foes. 
I  drop  the  reins  upon  his  neck, 
And  never  think  to  curb  or  check; 

I  let  him  choose  because — he  knows! 

The  pampa  is  my  native  land, 

In  all  its  great  immensity. 

My  greatest  wish  shall  ever  be 
To  force  my  heart  to  my  command, 
That  I  may  dwell  in  peace.     I  stand 
For  Liberty,  my  law's  my  knife; 
My  life  is  naught  but  pain  and  strife; 

My  soul  is  but  a  wounded  dove 

From  so  much  suffering — and  love. 
To  sing,  then,  is  my  lot  in  life. 

Though  bitter  sorrow  is  my  lot, 
'Twill  never,  never  be  my  death. 
So  long  as  I  can  draw  my  breath 
I'll  sing,  and  when  I  sing  there's  naught 
Can  kill  me:    grief  most  sure  cannot. 
A  payador,  I  now  proclaim 
That  herein  am  I  known  to  fame; 
And  when  I  sing  from  my  great  heart 
The  bravest  fall  before  my  art: 
For  Santos  Vega  is  my  name! 

[When  SANTOS  VEGA  finishes  his  ''presentation"  the 
ranchmen  crowd  around  him  to  offer  their  congratula- 
tions.   ARGENTINA,  who  has  exchanged  several  in- 
terested glances  with  the  singer,  is  absorbed  in  tliought. 
GUMERSINDO.  Santos  Vega,  of  course! 
VICENTA.  The  most  celebrated  payador  in  the  country! 
CIKILO.  What  luck  to  have  him  here! 


38  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

RUPEHTO.  [To  CONTBEKAS]  Here's  your  chance  to  sit  face 
to  face  with  a  rival. 

VICENTA.  There's  no  comparison. 

FIRST  PEON.  That  fellow  is  in  a  different  class. 

SECOND  PEON.  There's  nobody  like  him. 

VICENTA.  The  horse  he's  on  shows  he's  no  mean  rider. 

FIRST  PEON.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  look  at  him. 

SECOND  PEON.  You  couldn't  match  him. 

VICENTA.  Even  his  lasso  is  much  too  long  for  you  men  to 
handle. 

CONTRERAS.  I'll  have  a  chance,  and  I'm  going  after  it  now. 
So  far,  I  have  never  given  in  a  hair's-breadth  to  any  one  in 
singing.  I'm  no  mean  rider,  either;  I'd  rather  ride  a  wild 
horse  than  a  tame  one  any  day! 

RUPERTO.  Bah!  .  .  . 

CONTRERAS.  [Approaching  SANTOS  VEGA]  Have  I  your  per- 
mission? 

SANTOS.  What?     Certainly! 

CONTRERAS.  I,  too,  am  a  singer. 

SANTOS.  Splendid!  What  can  I  do  for  you?  Don't  say 
another  word,  my  friend;  I  always  like — 

CONTRERAS.  First  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am  used  to 
singing  with  the  best  singers  in  the  country,  and  that  I  am 
thought  to  be  very  good  at  it.  I'd  like  to  see  if  I  belong 
to  that  class  of  fakers  that  you  always  leave  so  far  behind — 
that  is,  if  you  accept?  .  .  . 

SANTOS.  Certainly!  Whatever  and  wherever  you  wish  .  .  . 
I'd  be  very  glad  to. 

CONTRERAS.  If  I  win — 

SANTOS.  Don't  even  think  of  that! 

CONTRERAS.  Remember,  I'm  one  of  the  best  and  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  lose.  We'll  see  which  one  of  us  is  the 
better! 

SANTOS.  Everybody  will  see  that  you  are  not! 


ACT  i  SANTOS   VEGA  39 

CONTRERAS.  Tomorrow — Sunday  evening,  then.  Does 
that  suit  you? 

SANTOS.  Where  shall  it  be? 

CONTRERAS.  The  near-by  pulperfa  would  be  a  good  place, 
I  think. 

SANTOS.  Splendid!    That's  all  there  is  to  it. 

CONTRERAS.  [Holding  out  his  hand]  Tomorrow  evening. 

SANTOS.  [Taking  the  proffered  hand]  Tomorrow!  I  sha'n't 
forget! 

CONTRERAS.  [As  he  goes  out]  Good!  Boys,  you  all  heard. 
Be  sure  and  come!  [Exit. 

GUMERSINDO.  And  now  let's  go,  in  case  the  singer  wants  to 
rest.     We  mustn't  forget  the  work  we  have  to  finish  today. 
[The  ranchmen  go  out,  leaving  VICENTA,  SANTOS  VEGA, 
and  ARGENTINA  on  the  stage. 

VICENTA.  That's  enough:  Santos  can  stay  with  us.  [In  low 
tones,  approaching  SANTOS  VEGA  and  indicating  ARGENTINA] 
I'll  make  tracks  in  a  minute.  I  don't  want  to  be  in  your  way. 

SANTOS.  [Pleased]  Very  good! 

ARGENTINA.  [As  VICENTA  starts  to  go]  Are  you  going, 
Vicenta? 

VICENTA.  [With  mock  seriousness]  I'll  stay  if  you  want  me  to. 

ARGENTINA.  Please  stay. 

VICENTA.  [Crossing  to  ARGENTINA]  Are  you  afraid  of  him? 
Didn't  you  understand?  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have 
me  go.  Didn't  you  notice  him? 

ARGENTINA.  [With  emotion,  and  bursting  into  tears]  I?  I 
have  loved  him  without  knowing  that  he  even  existed! 

VICENTA.  And  that  is  why  you  are  crying? 

SANTOS.  [To  VICENTA]  Tell  me — what  about  your  promise? 

VICENTA.  [Roguishly]  What  a  hurry  you  are  in!  [To 
ARGENTINA]  Can't  you  see  I'm  angry?  [Exit. 

[As  soon  as  VICENTA  goes  out,  SANTOS  VEGA  approaches 
ARGENTINA. 


40  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

SANTOS.  [Tenderly]  Is  the  little  dove  mourning  some  for- 
gotten love?  I  see  sorrow  peeping  through  the  tears  in  your 
eyes.  Is  your  trouble  so  great?  Could  not  the  words  of  a 
singer  comfort  you — a  singer  who  has  suffered,  and  who  still 
suffers  so  much  that  were  he  to  weep  he  would  drown  in  his 
own  tears? 

ARGENTINA.  [Weakly]  And  how  can  a  singer  who  can  only 
weep  comfort  me  in  my  sorrow? 

SANTOS.  Because  my  own  grief  teaches  me  the  cure. 
Wasn't  it  caused  by  love? 

ARGENTINA.  I  have  never  known  love. 

SANTOS.  Only  love  can  make  a  woman  weep.  The 
wounded  dove  should  not  disdain  my  solace,  nor  think  that 
because  she  has  fallen  she  will  fly  no  more.  For  I  would  give 
my  life  to  help  her  in  her  flight.  Is  she  pursued  by  a  hawk 
which  she  fears  will  do  her  harm?  I  offer  her  my  knife  and 
my  horse  to  defend  her  and  my  heart  to  soothe  her  pain: 
a  song,  too,  very  tender  and  consoling,  for  all  that  she  has 
suffered. 

ARGENTINA.  Why  do  you  offer  me  so  much? 

SANTOS.  Because  a  woman  deserves  everything  when  she 
weeps. 

ARGENTINA.  And  if  some  day,  thanks  to  the  song  you  offer 
me,  my  sadness  turns  to  joy?  Will  I  not  then  be  a  source 
of  great  anxiety  to  you? 

SANTOS.  The  dove  would  fly  off  and  forget  me. 

ARGENTINA.  [Impuhively,  unable  to  contain  herself]  No;  for 
without  your  sympathy  I  should  die  ...  no  matter  where  I 
went! 

SANTOS.  [Comprehending]  Dear,  dear  little  dove!  How  is  it 
that  I  never  found  you  until  today,  and  then  in  pain?  I 
bless  the  fall  that  left  you  in  my  path,  dear  little  dove! 

ARGENTINA.  Singer,  if  you  have  suffered  so  much,  why  is 
it  that  your  heart  did  not  guess  my  sorrow  before  I  spoke? 


ACTI  SANTOS   VEGA  41 

Why  did  you  not  know  the  cause  of  my  tears  before?  I 
adored  you  before  I  even  knew  you  existed,  gaucho  mine. 
Every  night  I  dreamed  that  you  would  come  soon.  The  days 
were  long,  but  my  faith  was  so  strong  that  I  never  once 
doubted  that  you  would  come  at  last.  You  are  the  singing 
gaucho  whom  I  loved  before  I  met;  the  gaucho  of  my  troubled 
dreams;  of  whom  I  was  jealous  before  I  knew  he  existed; 
for  whom  I  would  kill  myself  were  he  ever  to  forget  me;  the 
man  to  whom  I  desire  to  give  all  my  life  and  all  my  love; 
my  only  and  greatest  joy  and  pain. 

SANTOS.  Even  as  you  speak  my  heart  is  building  you  a 
nest.  The  moment  you  opened  your  lips  I  was  stirred  by  a 
great  emotion. 

ARGENTINA.  It  is  comforting  to  hear  you,  but  I  am  afraid 
that  I  am  dreaming  and  that  I  shall  soon  wake  up — weeping 
as  usual. 

SANTOS.  Don't  be  sad  again.  It  makes  me  very  unhappy 
to  see  your  beautiful  eyes  hidden  behind  a  veil  of  tears. 
You  have  nothing  to  fear  now,  for  here  I  am  at  your  side, 
dear  heart — somewhat  downcast,  perhaps,  and  sorry  to  have 
waited  so  long.  [A  pause]  But  tell  me,  my  dear;  I've  been  so 
upset  that  I  forgot  to  ask  you — what  do  they  call  you? 

ARGENTINA.  Argentina. 

SANTOS.  What  a  beautiful  name  for  a  song! 

ARGENTINA.  Take  me  with  you! 

SANTOS.  How  could  I  leave  you?  That  would  be  like 
cutting  our  heart  in  two!  Monday  morning,  just  as  the  sun 
is  rising,  if  the  singing  contest  is  over,  I'll  gallop  off  into  the 
open  country  with  my  sweetheart  behind  me  and  with  God 
as  our  only  witness.  Would  you  like  that,  beloved? 

ARGENTINA.  I'd  be  willing  to  go  anywhere  with  you — even 
to  the  desert! 

SANTOS.  That's  a  brave  dear!  I  like  you  for  that!  [Pause] 
May  I  kiss  you? 


42  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

ARGENTINA.  [Giving  herself  into  his  arms]  You  are  the  master 
of  my  life! 

[They  kiss.  At  this  moment  enter  from  up  stage, 
on  the  left,  GUMERSINDO,  RUPERTO,  FIRST  and 
SECOND  PEONS,  and  CIRILO.  They  gaze  into  the 
distance,  shading  their  eyes  with  their  hands. 

RUPERTO.  It's  the  police,  can't  you  see? 

FIRST  PEON.  They're  coining  this  way! 

SECOND  PEON.  Who  do  you  suppose  they  are  after? 

GUMERSINDO.  Go  and  tell  Cirilo,  quick! 

CIRILO.  [Sulkily]  Here  I  am,  old  man. 

GUMERSINDO.  [Mysteriously]  Tell  me — 

CIRILO.  They  are  after  me. 

GUMERSINDO.  Are  you  going  to  give  yourself  up? 

CIRILO.  Yes.     I've  had  enough  of  it. 

GUMERSINDO.  Cane  jo!     So  I  thought! 

CIRILO.  I'm  tired  of  dodging  around. 

SANTOS.  What  is  there  so  good  to  look  at? 

RUPERTO.  The  police  are  coming. 

SANTOS.  [Brusquely]  You  don't  tell  me! 

ARGENTINA.  [In  alarm]  For  you? 

SANTOS.  No,  my  life — I  have  nothing  to  fear.  But  I  can 
never  see  the  police  without  wanting  to  fight  them. 

ARGENTINA.  Santos! 

SANTOS.  What  are  they  coming  here  for? 

CIRILO.  They  are  looking  for  me. 

SANTOS.  You're  not  going  to  give  yourself  up? 

CIRILO.  Yes. 

SANTOS.  But  aren't  you  going  to  defend  yourself? 

CIKILO.  I'm  not  even  going  to  make  a  move.  I'm  no 
stay-at-home  gaucho;  I  know  what  it  is  to  fight  and  to  suffer; 
but  I  don't  want  to  live  like  a  whipped  cur  and  spend  my  life 
running  away  from  the  police.  And  all  because  one  day  I 
came  across  a  gathering  of  strangers  who  thought  they  owned 


ACTI  SANTOS   VEGA  43 

the  earth  because  their  judge  protected  them.  The  minute 
they  saw  me  coming  they  tried  to  lasso  me.  But  I'm  not  so 
easy  to  catch,  and  I  didn't  let  them  do  it.  Then  they  began 
to  threaten  me  with  the  stocks.  I  left  without  even  trying  to 
kill  anybody! 

SECOND  PEON.  They're  getting  off  their  horses! 

SANTOS.  How  many  of  them  are  there? 

SECOND  PEON.  Four  big  fellows. 

SANTOS.  All  the  better! 

ARGENTINA.  Santos,  Santos!  .  .  .  For  my  sake! 

SANTOS.  Don't  be  afraid,  dear  heart.  Four  policemen 
can't  overpower  me. 

ARGENTINA.  Santos,  Santos! . . .  Please! 
Enter  three  SOLDIERS  and  a  SERGEANT  on  the  run 
They  start  to  seize  CIRILO 

SERGEANT.  At  last  you're  caught,  you  bandit!  I've  got 
my  hands  on  you  now! 

SANTOS.  [Breaking  away  from  ARGENTINA  and  with  one 
leap  interposing  himself  between  the  SOLDIERS  and  CIRILO] 
Hold  your  horses,  my  friends!  It  takes  more  than  an  "I 
wish"  to  capture  a  gaucho! 

SERGEANT.  [In  astonishment]  Who  are  you?  [To  the  SOL- 
DIERS, as  tiiey  attempt  to  lay  hands  on  SANTOS]  Halt! 

SANTOS.  Anybody! 

SERGEANT.  Do  you  want  to  go  before  the  judge?  Nobody 
has  ever  even  tried  that. 

SANTOS.  That  is  just  why  some  one  must  be  the  first. 

SERGEANT.  Ahijuna!  You'll  both  go  before  the  judge 
together! 

SANTOS.  It  doesn't  strike  me  that  you  are  quite  equal 
to  that. 

SERGEANT.  I've  had  enough  from  you.  [Orders  the  SOL- 
DIERS to  attack  him]  Take  him!  [The  SOLDIERS  attempt  to  obey, 
and  a  fight  ensues] 


44  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  i 

SANTOS.  You  can't  do  anything  with  me.  Here's  where 
I  act  like  a  friend. 

CIRILO.  [Deciding  to  fight]  I'm  with  you! 
SANTOS.  You'd  better  not  get  mixed  up  in  this,  comrade. 
[The  combatants  are  arranged  as  follows:  the  SERGEANT 
and  THIRD  SOLDIER  against  SANTOS  VEGA,  and  the 
FIRST  and  SECOND  SOLDIERS  against  CIRILO. 
GUMERSINDO.  It's  foolhardy! 

SERGEANT.  [Attempting  to  stab  SANTOS  with  his  saber]  Ah, 
my  lying  gaucho,  take  that! 

SANTOS.  [Warding  off  the  blow  with  hi-s  poncho]  You  never 
even  touched  my  hide.  [Stabbing  the  SERGEANT  in  tJie  breast 
until  his  knife]  Guard  yourself! 
SERGEANT.  [As  he  falls]  He  stabbed  me! 
SANTOS.  One!  (To  THIRD  SOLDIER]  Now  don't  you  give  up 
after  having  boasted  so  much.     He  was  a  coward!  [Stabbing 
him]  Don't  try  to  defend  yourself  from  this! 

[The  THIRD  SOLDIER  falls  and  SANTOS  goes  to  CIRILO'S 

aid. 

CIRILO.  I'm  all  right! 
THIRD  SOLDIER.  [As  he  falls]  I'm  done  for! 

[When  the  FIRST  SOLDIER  finds  himself  alone  he  starts 
to  run  away,  with  CIRILO  after  him.  SANTOS  detainn 
CIRILO. 

SANTOS.  Don't  chase  him.     Leave  him  entirely  to  me,  at 
least  for  this  time.     We'll  tend  to  him  later,  so  he  can  take 
the  news  of  all  tliis  to  the  Justice!     He  has  learned  his 
lesson.     You  may  be  sure  he  won't  forget! 
ARGENTINA.  Santos,  my  love! 

FIRST  SOLDIER.  We'll  meet  again.  There  will  lye  plenty 
of  chances,  don't  forget  that!  If  not  today,  perhaps  to- 
morrow. 

GUMERSINDO.  That  fellow  is  going  to  betray  you. 
SANTOS.  He  doesn't  kill  who  merely  wishes  to — he  must 


ACTI  SANTOS   VEGA  45 

know  how  first!  Go,  and  bring  another  squad.  But  don't 
be  so  foolish  as  to  bring  such  a  handful  with  you  next  time. 
That  would  be  like  throwing  your  life  away.  Bring  on  the 
best  of  them — you  can't  play  with  me! 

FIRST  SOLDIER.  Are  you  the  devil? 

SANTOS.  No,  Santos  Vega! 

ARGENTINA.  [Embracing  him]  The  singer  of  singers! 

Rapid  Curtain 


ACT  TWO 

At  the  ranch  known  as  "  The  Light."  Open  country.  On  the 
right,  the  entrance  to  the  ranch  house.  Up  stage  on  the 
right  tJte  door  and  windows  of  a  pulperia  can  be  seen. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  ROSA  comes  from  the  pulperia  with 
a  small  package  and  goes  toward  the  ranch  house.  As  she 
reaches  the  center  of  the  stage  she  sJiades  her  eyes  with  her 
hand  and  looks  off  toward  the  left. 

ROSA.  [Coiling}  Senora  Rufina,  come  here!  Vicenta  is 
coming. 

RUFINA.  [Entering  hurriedly  from  the  house]  Where  is  she? 

VICENTA.  [Entering]  How  are  you,  my  dear? 

RUFINA.  [Embracing  her}  What  good  wind  brought  you  here? 
What's  the  news?  Tell  me  about  yourself. 

VICENTA.  I  just  came  over  to  have  a  little  gossip  and  to 
say  hello.  I  also  thought  that  even  if  I  am  a  bit  late  I  might 
be  able  to  help  you  a  little.  You  must  be  terribly  busy  with 
all  your  preparations. 

RUFINA.  Don't  say  a  word;  I'm  half  crazy  with  work! 
How  is  your  patroncita? 

VICENTA.  Bad! 

ROSA.  Is  she  really  bewitched? 

VICENTA.  She  hasn't  known  a  thing  since  that  awful  night. 
Where  is  your  patron? 

RUFINA.  He  got  up  early  to  bring  some  special  wine  from 
the  village  and  hasn't  come  back  yet. 

ROSA.  And  Argentina? 

VICENTA.  Heartbroken  because  she  can't  come  to  the 
40 


ACT  ii  SANTOS    VEGA  47 

dance.    She  had  to  stay  behind  to  keep  the  patrona  company, 
and  is  in  tears.     And —    Do  you  need  anything? 

RUFINA.  What  do  you  think  we  could  need?    Nothing! 

VICENTA.  Of  course  you're  going  to  have  carbonada?1  How 
is  it? 

RUFINA.  The  best  ever! 

VICENTA.  And  mazamorra? 

RUFINA.  And  meat  pies  and  roasts. 

VICENTA.  You  certainly  haven't  forgotten  anything!  Do 
you  know  who's  coming? 

RUFINA.  Who? 

VICENTA.  Santos  Vega! 

RUFINA.  Oh  yes,  I  heard  he  was.    I'm  awfully  glad! 

ROSA.  They  say  he's  one  of  the  very  best  payadors  in  the 
country. 

VICENTA.  The  best!  [Laughter  is  heard  in  the  pulperla]  W7ho's 
in  there?  [Exit  ROSA  at  left. 

RUFINA.  Who  do  you  suppose?    The  ranchmen. 

VICENTA.  Can  the  whole  crowd  get  into  the  pulperia? 

RUFINA.  There  are  more  in  the  sleeping-quarters. 

VICENTA.  The  fiesta  will  be  a  great  success  if  some  fool 
doesn't  come  along  and  spoil  it.  Let's  go  into  the  kitchen; 
I  want  to  give  you  a  hand.  Are  we  surely  going  to  have 
fried  corn? 

RUFINA.  Everything.     Nothing  will  be  wanting. 

VICENTA.  [Counting  on  her  fingers]  Mazamorra,  carbonada, 
meat  pies,  roasts,  good  wine,  dancing,  and  a  song  contest — 
there  certainly  is  nothing  missing!  My  friend  has  outdone 
herself. 

As  VICENTA  and  RUFINA  enter  the  house,  GUMER- 
SINDO,  RUPERTO,  and  JACINTO  come  out  of  the 
pulperia.  GUMERSINDO  is  drunk. 

GUMERSINDO.  Bah!    The  pay'dors  're  late. 

1  Carbonada:   an  Argentine  dish  not  unlike  pancakes. 


48  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  n 

RUPEBTO.  We'll  have  a  little  game  while  we  wait  for  them. 

GUMERSINDO.  Fine  gamblers  you've  been! 

JACINTO.  Come  on,  old  man. 

GUMERSINDO.  I  don't  want  to  beat  you!  An'  besides — if 
I  ever  get  back  in  there,  canejol — I  won't  come  out  again. 
'Cause  I'm  already  half — 

RTTPERTO.  That's  true! 

JACINTO.  How  quickly  he  got  it! 

GUMERSINDO.  I  p'tended  to  be  asleep,  but  I  was  really  half 
awake.  If  I  play,  you'll  lose! 

JACINTO.  Fine!    So  much  the  better. 

GUMERSINDO.  There's  nothing  like  wanting  an  ache  to  get 
one.  [Enter  CONTRERAS,  the  payador,  up  stage,  guitar  in  fiand] 
Well!  You're  late,  but  here  you  are  at  las'!  I  thought  you 
had  backed  down. 

CONTRERAS.  Is  Santos  Vega  in  the  pulperfa? 

JACINTO.  No  such  luck !    He  hasn't  even  showed  up  yet. 

CONTRERAS.  What  do  you  suppose  has  happened  to  the 
soldiers? 

JACINTO.  It  was  one  of  the  patron's  false  alarms.  He's 
always  dreaming  about  an  uprising.  The  soldiers  were  in  the 
sleeping-quarters  all  night  waiting  for  the  Indians. 

CONTRERAS.  All  the  better  if  nothing  happened. 

JACINTO.  That  precaution  of  his  was  like  a  stab  in  the  back 
to  me.  While  I  was  off  carrying  out  the  patron's  orders, 
another  gaucho  came  along  and  took  advantage  of  the  fact 
that  my  girl  was  alone  and  stole  her  heart  from  me! 

GUMERSINDO.  Who  you  talking  'bout? 

JACINTO.  Argentina. 

CONTRERAS.  And  who  did  this  mean  trick? 

JACINTO.  The  celebrated  Santos  Vega! 

RUPERTO.  If  that  fellow  has  had  his  hands  on  her  you've 
lost  your  stake,  because  his  cows  never  turn  oul  to  be  bulls, 
my  friend. 


ACTH  SANTOS   VEGA  49 

GUMERSINDO.  An'  there's  no  place  for  a  young  calf  where 
that  bull  bellows! 

RUPEBTO.  Nobody  can  get  ahead  of  him — he's  a  real 
gaucho.  You're  an.  ox  alongside  of  him! 

GUMERSINDO.  An'  where  will  the  ox  go  that  doesn't  plow? 

JACINTO.  All  right!  We'll  see  who  is  brave.  He'll  have 
to  meet  me  when  he  gets  back,  and  we'll  fight  it  out  about 
her  if  he  wants  to. 

RUPEBTO.  You'll  be  sure  to  lose. 

GUMERSINDO.  There's  no  knife  can  touch  his  skin. 

JACINTO.  The  quickest  gaucho  stays  on  his  feet. 
Enter,  up  stage,  CIRILO,   FIRST  and   SECOND    PEONS  and 
various  ranchmen 

GUMERSINDO.  Here  come  the  boys! 

JACINTO.  And  Santos  Vega  isn't  with  them! 

CIRILO.  He  ought  to  be  here  right  now. 

JACINTO.  I  want  him  to  come. 
Enter  the  GUITAR  PLATERS  from  up  stage  on  the  left 

CIRILO.  Here  come  the  guitar  players — the  life  of  the  fiesta! 

GUMERSINDO.  Ah!  We  forget  everything  when  all  these 
guitars  are  around.  There's  nothing  better  than  the  playing 
of  guitars  to  drown  our  sorrows. 

CIRILO.  And  a  few  drinks  of  gin! 

GUMERSINDO.  Are  you  tuned  up? 

FIRST  GUITAR  PLAYER.  All  ready! 

GUMERSINDO.  Fine!  Now  we  mus'  tone  up  these  fellows 
with  a  few  little  bottles  of  gin,  so's  they  can  blossom  out 
later  on  the  strings.  Into  the  pulperia  with  the  guitar 
players!  [They  obey  him]  In  with  the  ranchmen,  too,  before 
the  dance  begins,  so  their  legs  won't  get  tired  and  they  won't 
act  like  boobies!  [Exeunt  all  but  JACINTO  and  GUMERSINDO] 
Here,  Useless!  Don't  you  want  to  go  in? 

JACINTO.  No,  I'm  waiting  for  Santos  Vega. 

GUMERSINDO,  What  for? 


I 

50  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  n 

JACINTO.  To  speak  to  him. 

GUMERSINDO.  To  shoot  him! 

JACINTO.  Your  grandmother! 

GUMERSINDO.  Like  a  chased  ostrich!  [Starts  toward  the  pul- 
peria,  but  his  inebriety  makes  it  difficult  for  him]  Come  with  me, 
Jacinto. 

JACINTO.  [Taking  his  arm]  I'll  go,  but  I'll  keep  my  eyes 
open. 

[As  JACINTO  and  GUMERSINDO  go  out,  the  FIRST  SOLDIER 
appears  very  cautiously  from  the  left  and  approaches 
the  window  of  the  pulperia,  through  which  he  peeps 
for  a  moment.  Suddenly  he  looks  toward  the  left 
and  disappears  quickly  to  the  right.  Enter  SANTOS 
VEGA  from  the  left  and  ROSA  from  the  house. 

SANTOS.  Good  afternoon. 

ROSA.  Good  afternoon. 

SANTOS.  I  v,  ,',.s  wondering  if  this  were  not  "The  Light," 
where  they  tell  me  there  is  to  be  a  cattle-branding  fiesta, 
but  now  I  can  tell  by  looking  at  it  that  this  is  the  ranch  I'm 
looking  for. 

ROSA.  Yes,  this  is  it. 

SANTOS.  I  don't  need  to  ask.  All  I  have  to  do  is  to  look 
at  you,  my  dear.  You  have  a  light  in  your  eyes  and  a  fiesta  in 
your  smile.  No  matter  where  I  had  met  you  I  would 
have  dismounted  at  once,  sure  that  the  fiesta  would  be  held 
wherever  you  wished  the  light  of  youi  eyes  to  shine.  Eyes 
that  are  so  black  they  hurt,  and  that  glow  like  stars.  In 
spite  of  their  seeming  hurt  they  do  not  make  one  sad;  for  all 
their  stormy  blackness,  they  gleam  with  a  light  that  brightens, 
silences,  and  cheers. 

ROSA.  Nobody  else  ever  saw  so  much  beauty  in  my  eyes. 

SANTOS.  That's  because  they  are  blinded  by  a  glance.  No 
one  can  look  upon  them  without  shutting  his  own  as  fast  as 
ever  they  wish  him  to.  The  only  reason  why  I  can  look  upon 


ACT  ii  SANTOS   VEGA  51 

L    _ 

them  without  being  blinded  is  because  their  light  reminds  me 
of  the  caressing  and  beloved  eyes  of  my  sweetheart,  a  sweet- 
voiced  lark  that  dreams  only  of  me,  sings  only  for  me,  and  now 
weeps  for  my  absence. 

ROSA.  You've  forgotten  my  eyes  already! 
SANTOS.  They  remind  me  of  hers. 
VICENTA.  [Within]  Rosa! 
ROSA.  Coming! 

VICENTA.  But,  Rosa — but,  girl —  [Entering]  Santos  Vega! 
At  last  you've  come!  Rufina! 

ROSA.  I  thought  you  must  be  Santos  Vega,  because  nobody 
else  could  talk  like  that.     Senora  Rufina,  coine  here! 
RUFINA.  [Within]  Coming! 

GUMERSINDO.  [Coming  out  of  the  pulperia]  Ahijuna!  Well,  if 
it  isn't  Santos  Vega! 

VICENTA.  [To  RUFINA  05  sJie  enters]  The  best  singer  in  the 
world ! 

GUMERSINDO.  [To  the  ranchmen  as  they  come  out  of  the  pul- 
peria] The  soul  of  our  country! 

ROSA.  I've  never  heard  you  sing,  but  I'd  like  to. 
VICENTA.  Play  your  guitar  and  start  the  fiesta.     Yours 
ought  to  be  the  first  guitar  to  play. 

GUMERSINDO.  Snatch  a  song  out  of  the  wind — something 
you  can  put  your  soul  into — that  brave,  sad  soul  that  is  the 
soul  of  this  country. 

SANTOS.  [Getting  ready  to  sing]  Here  go  my  song  and  my 
soul,  for  I  never  sing  without  that! 

[He  sings  a  sad  strain,  accompanying  himself  upon  his 
guitar. 
The  branches  of  an  ornbti  tree 

Let  fall  their  leaves  like  flowing  tears: 
A  touch  of  wind,  and  then  one  hears 
A  plaintive  wail  in  minor  key. 
And  so  I,  in  my  misery, 


52  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  n 

Compose  my  sad  and  mournful  songs, 
And  weep  for  my  unrighted  wrongs. 
These  songs  of  mine  are  like  the  leaves, 
Like  aching  hearts  the  wind  receives 

And  scatters  through  the  land  in  throngs. 
CIRILO.  Fine! 

VICENTA.  He  made  me  cry! 
RUPERTO.  Don't  go  on,  I  can't  stand  it. 
GUMEBSINDO.  Unbosom  your  soul  if  you  have  so  many 
sorrows  to  sing  about. 
SANTOS.  [Singing  again] 

My  sweetheart  is  a  little  dove 

That  came  to  make  her  downy  nest 
Within  the  shelter  of  my  breast. 
My  songs  are  flowers  that  but  prove 
Sweet  tokens  of  my  lasting  love. 

Her  cooing  soothes  my  burning  wound, 
And  in  her  ears  forever  sound 
The  mournful  echoes  of  my  plaint 
Like  tiny  birds  who,  hurt  and  faint, 
Seek  refuge  in  her  love  profound. 

GUMERSINDO.  That's  the  way  to  sing,  my  friend,  when  you 
know  how! 

VICENTA.  He  certainly  knows  how  to  put  everything  he 
has  into  it! 

GUMERSINDO.  [Crossing  to  tlie  pidpcria]  Ho  there,  pulpero! 
A  little  bottle  of  gin!  Here,  wet  your  throat — drain  it  at  a 
gulp. 

SANTOS.  [Drinks]  Thanks.     Eh,  Gumersindo? 
GUMERSINDO.  [Taking  tlie  bottle  j 'mm  the  singer's  hands  and 
holding  it  neck  down]  That's  the  way  a  man  should  do! 
Ahijunat    What  a  fine  kiss!    You  drained  it  in  one  gulp, 
brother! 
JACINTO.  [Passing  in  frojit  of  and  thrusting  his  face  close  to 


ACT  ii  SANTOS   VEGA  53 

that  of  SANTOS,  he  stares  at  him  fixedly}  Do  you  know 
that  I'm  looking  at  you  and  that  you  don't  seem  to 
notice  it? 

SANTOS.  [Looking  at  him  and  putting  down  his  guitar]  And 
I  don't  like  the  way  you  look! 

JACINTO.  Don't  you?     Canejo!    The  worse  for  you! 

SANTOS.  [Drawing  nearer]  What  did  you  say? 

JACINTO.  [Stepping  back  a  pace  and  drawing  his  knife]  We'll 
fight  if  you  want  to. 

SANTOS.  Certainly!    But  what  for? 

JACINTO.  You're  confounded  slow! 

SANTOS.  How? 

JACINTO.  If  your  little  dove  knew  it  she'd  fly  off  to  another 
nest  where  there  isn't  so  much  fear. 

SANTOS.  [Drawing  his  knife]  I,  fear!  Ahijuna!  Out  of  my 
way! 

GUMERSINDO.  [Restraining  SANTOS]  Hold  your  horses,  part- 
ner! Don't  kill  him  before  you  know  why  the  fool  is  after 
you. 

SANTOS.  Why  is  he? 

GUMERSINDO.  Why,  you  see,  he's  jealous.  He's  suffering 
so  that,  though  the  lad  is  but  a  calf,  he  wants  to  be  a  bull  just 
out  of  stupidity.  [To  JACINTO,  who  advances  upon  him  threat- 
eningly] What's  the  matter?  You  want  to  fight  me  wheu 
I'm  saving  your  hide? 

SANTOS.  Jealous  of  whom? 

JACINTO.  Of  Argentina. 

VICENTA.  Why  should  you  be  jealous  of  her,  pray? 

SANTOS.  Tell  me. 

JACINTO.  Because  I  love  her. 

SANTOS.  And  does  she  love  you? 

JACINTO.  Of  course  she  does! 

VICENTA.  Listen  to  him!  She  never  even  looks  at  you, 
and  you  know  it.  You  bother  her  to  death.  You  follow 


54  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  n 

her  around,  and  that's  all.  There's  a  great  deal  of  difference 
between  that  and  her  liking  to  have  you  do  it. 

SANTOS.  [Sheathing  his  knife]  Put  away  your  knife  and  your 
jealousy  and  keep  your  courage  for  another  time.  I  might 
fight  a  thousand  because  I  would  rather  lose  my  life  than  my 
liberty,  without  which,  as  without  my  songs,  I  should  die.  I 
carry  a  knife  at  my  belt  because  one  must  be  strong  in  order 
to  be  free.  And  I  fight  the  police  because  they  come  to  take 
men  before  a  thief  they  call  a  judge  who  tries  to  make  slaves 
of  free  men  and  tents  of  their  hides.  But  I  have  never  fought 
over  love,  and  I  never  will,  because  I  do  not  want  caresses 
that  are  inspired  by  fear  and  not  by  love.  I  want  to  be 
loved  for  this  [touching  his  heart],  and  never  for  this  [touching 
his  knife],  I  want  them  to  give  me  their  hearts  because 
they  know  there  is  a  heart  in  my  breast,  and  not  because 
they  suspect  there  is  a  knife  at  my  belt.  And  that  is  the 
way  Argentina,  my  life  and  my  comfort,  loves  me:  for  the 
soul  of  me,  and  with  a  love  that  comes  from  the  heart  and 
not  from  fear. 

JACINTO.  But  I  want  to  tell  you — 

SANTOS.  Wait!  You  shall  have  your  say.  Argentina  is 
everything  to  me:  peace,  comfort,  hope,  joy — everything. 
She  is  all  that  I  wish.  She  is  my  dove,  my  life,  my  heart's 
blood — even  my  verses.  Very  well — when  we  see  Argentina 
again  we'll  ask  her  to  whom  she  wishes  to  give  her  soul — 
which  one  of  us  is  the  choice  of  her  heart.  .  .  .  And  I  swear  to 
you  that  if  she  says  you  are  her  desire  I'll  gallop  off  into  the 
open  country,  not  knowing  where  I  go,  and  leaving  my  heart 
behind — for  it  is  all  hers.  And  because  she  is  my  all,  I  shall 
go  without  my  soul,  without  my  songs,  without  peace,  with- 
out joy — with  nothing  but  my  guitar  to  comfort  me.  ...  So 
alone  that  I  shall  pray  for  an  early  death.  But  if  Argentina 
says  that  Santos  Vega  is  her  choice,  that  she  lives  only  for 
me,  and  that  my  love  is  her  master — 


ACT  ii  SANTOS   VEGA  55 

JACINTO.  Poor  Argentina! 

SANTOS.  What?  Poor  you,  if  you  touch  a  hair  of  her  head 
after  that;  for  then  I  sha'n't  hold  myself  back — I'll  carve 
you  as  I  would  a  steer!  The  lad  is  warned! 

JACINTO.  [As  he  enters  the  pulperia]  We'll  talk  later. 

SANTOS.  I  swear  you  sha'n't  say  much! 

[A  moment  of  silence. 

VICENTA.  [Suddenly]  See  here!  Everybody  is  as  silent  as 
a  graveyard  at  prayer-time! 

GUMEESINDO.  Just  exactly!  Here,  let's  have  some  joy 
again —  Play  up,  guitar  players!  [The  PATRON  of  "The 
Light"  appears]  Ahijuna!  Here's  the  Patron! 

PATRON.  [Greeting  everybody]  Where  did  so  many  good  things 
come  from? 

VICENTA.  The  dance  can  begin  now. 

Several  young  girls  enter  from  left 

ROSA.  [Pointing  them  out]  Senora  Rufina! 

RUFINA.  [As  she  sees  them]  At  last  they've  come! 

VICENTA.  Take  a  look  at  these  girls — you  were  so  sad  a 
moment  ago — it  will  cheer  you  up.  They're  very  pretty. 
Bah,  Santos  Vega!  Forget  your  troubles  and  take  a  look 
at  these  pretty  flowers. 

SANTOS.  Yes,  I  was  watching  them.  It  is  fitting  that  the 
sun  should  come  out  after  such  gloomy  weather! 

VICENTA.  Gaucho,  you  always  know  just  what  to  say! 

ROSA.  Let's  begin  the  dance. 

CONTRERAS.  First  we  must  have  the  contest.  If  you  are 
willing,  partner,  tune  up  your  guitar  and  let's  see  who  can  win. 

SANTOS.  With  great  pleasure. 

[SANTOS  and  CONTRERAS,  seated  face  to  face,  tune  their 
instruments. 

VICENTA.  What  a  pair: 

GUMERSINDO.  [Meaning  CONTRERAS]  I  see  his  finish! 

RUPERTO.  I  think  he  ought  to  be  given  the  advantage. 


56  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  n 

FIRST  PEON.  It's  going  to  be  a  robbery — cane  jo! 
GUMERSINDO.  We'll  see  if  Contreras  is  a  good  horseman 
this  time. 

VICENTA.  I  don't  think  such  a  heavy  man  can  fool  with  a 
horse! 

[Some  standing,  others  seated,  they  all  gather  around  the 
singers.     SANTOS  begins  with  a  prelude  on  his  guitar 
which  CONTHERAS  immediately  answers  with  another. 
CONTRERAS.     [Singing] 

Attention,  friends,  I  first  request, 
And  then  your  silence,  if  you  please. 
I  wish  to  try  with  perfect  ease 
To  prove  that  I  am  of  the  best. 
That  there  are  many  worse  I'll  swear, 
For  I  have  never  known  defeat. 
When  one  is  best,  I  know  'tis  meet 
That  others  should  be  worse — that's  clear! 
And  yet,  'tis  not  an  easy  task 

To  guess  which  one  is  going  to  win. 
Be  not  too  confident,  I  ask. 

The  proudest  must  some  day  give  in; 
The  toughest  rawhide  rope  will  break; 
The  bravest  rider  of  the  plain 
Will  find  his  skill  is  oft  in  vain 
So  then  it  is  not  good  to  speak 
And  call  this  test  a  robbery. 

But  if  in  one  great  twisting  leap 
You  think  to  throw  me  in  a  heap, 
A  gallant  steed  I  swear  you'll  be! 
SANTOS.  [After  a  preliminary  flourish  on  his  guitar] 
My  rival  speaks  the  truth  to  you: 
It  is  no  easy  task  to  guess, 
For  fate's  a  horseman,  I  confess, 
That  only  fiercest  steeds  subdue. 


ACT  II 


SANTOS   VEGA 


57 


However,  thanks  are  due  to  those 

Who  think  that  I  can  win  today — 

And  yet  I  cannot  really  say 
Until  this  test  comes  to  a  close, 

If  I  deserve  your  confidence. 
Till  then,  I  pray  most  earnestly 

That  you  restrain  your  compliments, 
Lest  I  the  winner  fail  to  be. 
CONTRERAS.     Be  not  too  humble,  my  good  friend: 

I  know  that  you  can  sing  right  well; 

And  though  I  think  that  I  excel, 

If  I  should  throw  you,  I  foretell 
That  you  will  on  your  feet  descend. 
SANTOS.  A  payador  of  my  renown 

Is  never  humble  in  a  crowd. 

He  may  be  prudent,  yet  be  proud — 
Too  proud  to  ever  yield  his  crown. 
And  now  I'll  give  you  some  advice, 

And  pray,  my  friend,  don't  take  offense: 

'Tis  better  not  to  let  me  fence, 
But  question  me,  and  be  precise. 
CONTRERAS.     I  could  not  take  offense  at  this — 

You  did  not  say  it  to  offend. 

So  I  will  ask  you  this,  my  friend: 
What  is  the  meaning  of  a  kiss? 
SANTOS.  The  earth  and  sun  are  wont  to  kiss 

When  night  unto  the  day  gives  place; 
And  I  can't  help  but  think  that  this 

Is  like  a  lover's  last  embrace. 
But  when  the  ev'ning  shadows  fall, 

Once  more  they  do  each  other  greet, 

And  kiss  each  other  as  they  meet, 
As  at  the  morning's  eager  call. 


58  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  n 

We  have  a  kiss's  counterpart 
In  many  a  lover's  evensong: 
'Tis  beautiful,  but  never  long, 

And  leaves  its  imprint  on  the  heart. 

A  kiss  is  like  unto  a  flower 

Pressed  tight  between  a  lover's  lips; 
And  when  he  of  its  nectar  sips 

He  ne'er  forgets  his  love's  sweet  dower. 

There  are  kisses  black  with  treachery, 
And  those  that  hide  a  whip-lash  sting, 
And  evil  ones,  and  ones  that  ring 

As  true  as  steel — as  ours  should  be. 

A  wandering  priest  once  told  me  this: 
That  long  ago  in  a  far-off  place 
A  man,  be  it  said  to  his  disgrace, 

Betrayed  our  Saviour  with  a  kiss! 
GUMERSINDO.  Ah!     Marvelous  payador  and  poet! 
VICENTA.  But  he  left  out  one  kind  of  a  kiss. 
GUMERSINDO.  Which  was  that? 

VICEXTA.  The  one  he  gave  to  the  bottle  a  little  while  ago! 
CONTRERAS.     Comrade,  I  must  confess  to  you, 
I  can  but  wonder  at  the  ease 
With  which  you  say  the  things  that  please 

About  a  kiss — and  that  they're  new! 

But  still  I  cannot  feel  quite  sure 
That  you  are  going  to  win  the  day. 
A  question  I  shall  now  essay — 
Please  answer  it  without  delay: 

Does  life  in  man  after  death  endure? 

So  now,  my  friend,  if  you  are  wise 
Enough  to  answer  that,  I  swear 
I  cannot  do  aught  but  declare 

That  you're  the  winner  of  the  prize. 


ACT  ii  SANTOS   VEGA  59 

SANTOS.  You  must  admit  that  I'm  ahead, 

And  you're  afraid  to  lose  the  game; 
Because  you  hurry  so  to  name 
That  point  about  a  man  who's  dead. 
It  also  seems  that  you  confess 

That  you  are  tired  and  wish  to  quit; 
But  I  am  going  to  answer  it, 
And  win  the  game,  with  cheerfulness: 
A  man,  we'll  say,  dies  on  his  ranch 

Alone,  and  quite  alone  has  been  .  .  . 
Then  down  from  some  old  withered  branch, 

A  vulture  such  as  you — 

CONTRERAS.  [Jumping  to  his  feet  indignantly]  Such  as  your 
grandmother! 

SANTOS.  He  wants  to  correct  me  all  of  a  sudden!     "Such 
as  you  have  often  seen,"  I  was  going  to  say,  partner! 

CONTRERAS.  You   tried   to   trip   me  and   throw  me  off. 
You  can't  deny  it.     But  I  landed  on  my  feet! 
GUMERSINDO.  But  you  lost  the  contest. 
VICENTA.  It  was  a  robbery,  and  he's  angry! 
CONTRERAS.  Up  to  now  I  have  always  won  in  a  singing 
contest.     If  I  am  beaten  this  time  it  is  because  sooner  or 
later  a  Santos  Vega  will  come  to  the  best  of  us — one  who 
excels  everybody  in  the  art  of  singing.     Leaving  him  out  of 
it,  I  am  ready  to  sing  with  anybody  that  wants  to  try  it! 

VICENTA.  Go  and  sing  to  your  grandmother  if  you're  so 
crazy  to  sing. 

CONTRERAB.  I'll  sing  to  you  some  day  when  you  least 
expect  it! 

{At  this  moment  the  FIRST  SOLDIER,  who  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  general  distraction  at  the  end  of  the 
contest  to  conceal  himself  behind  SANTOS  VEGA, 
attempts  to  stab  him  in  the  back.  CIRILO  sees  him 
and  throws  SANTOS  to  the  ground  by  a  quick  push, 


60  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  n 

and  then  seizes  the  dagger  hand  of  the  traitor.  There 
is  a  general  commotion. 

CIRILO.  Ahijuna!    I  caught  you  just  in  time! 

SOLDIER.  Let  me  go! 

CIRILO.  Bandit!    I  ought  to  kill  you! 

SANTOS.  [Arising  in  surprise]  He  tried  to  kill  me!  Where 
do  you  suppose  he  comes  from?  And  he  was  going  to  kill 
me! 

CIRILO.  He's  a  fine  traitor,  he  is! 

SANTOS.  You  must  be  a  foreigner.  You  can't  belong  to 
this  country.  People  in  this  part  of  the  country  don't  do 
things  like  that,  you  coward! 

GUMERSINDO.  Were  you  going  to  brag  about  the  fact  that 
you  had  killed  him  from  behind? 

SANTOS.  Let  him  go.  He  wanted  to  fight,  so  let  him  fight 
me  face  to  face,  like  a  man ! 

SOLDIER.  [Remains  where  he  is]  You  may  kill  me,  and  be 
sure  that  you  are  killing  a  man.  I  don't  want  to  fight, 
though  I  must  always  be  looking  for  one!  Kill  me  if  you 
wish,  for  if  you  don't  I  swear  I'll  get  you  into  trouble. 

GUMERSINDO.  Have  no  mercy  on  him — though  I  see  you 
are  going  to. 

SOLDIER.  I'll  Keep  after  you  until  I  see  my  chance. 

SANTOS.  Look  here,  I  don't  want  to  kill  you!  Go,  and 
follow  me  no  more. 

RUPERTO.  He'll  attack  you  from  behind! 

CIRILO.  He'll  be  treacherous  again! 

SANTOS.  It  would  disgust  me  to  kill  liim.  Tears  of  rage 
and  disgust  come  to  my  eyes  when  I  think  that  there  are 
traitors  like  him  in  my  country.  How  can  there  be?  The 
best  country  in  the  world;  the  land  of  the  singing  gauchos 
and  brave  horsemen;  the  land  of  my  love?  How  could  a 
traitor  like  that  have  been  born  in  the  same  country  that  has 
known  my  love,  where  I  have  wept  for  my  sorrows,  where  so 


ACT  ii  SANTOS    VEGA  61 

many  brave  hearts  listen  to  my  songs  and  weep  with  me  in 
my  grief?  Who  was  his  unhappy  mother  whom  God  has 
punished  with  a  scoundrel  like  him  for  a  son?  [Imperiously  and 
threateningly]  Go!  and  may  God  speed  your  death.  May 
there  be  no  cross  to  mark  your  grave.  May  no  one  know 
the  pain  of  even  suspecting  that  a  man  could  be  born  in  this 
country — my  country — and  turn  traitor!  [Clianging  his  tone 
as  he  turns  to  CIRILO,  much  moved]  Allow  me  to  thank  you,  my 
good  friend,  with  all  my  heart.  Let  me  embrace  you;  you 
have  saved  my  life. 

CIRILO.  I  owe  my  liberty  to  your  courage,  partner.     You 
saved  me  first,  and  won  my  friendship  by  doing  it. 

[They  embrace. 

SANTOS.  Now  let's  have  the  dance.    The  girls  must  for- 
give me — it's  my  fault  that  they  haven't  danced  yet. 
CIRILO.  It  was  that  traitor's  fault. 

SANTOS  [To  the  GUITAR  PLAYERS]  Begin  with  a  cielito1  if 
you  are  tuned  up.  [The  GUITAR  PLAYERS  make  ready. 

VICENTA.  Choose  your  partners! 

[Eight  couples  are  formed  as  follows:  SANTOS  with  ROSA, 
CIRILO  with  the  FIRST  GIRL,  CONTRERAS  with  the 
SECOND,  RUPERTO  with  tlie  THIRD,  GUMERSINDO 
with  VICENTA,  the  PATRON  with  RUFINA,  the  FIRST 
PEON  with  the  FOURTH  GIRL,  and  the  SECOND  PEON 
with  the  FIFTH. 
SANTOS.  Play  your  music! 

[The  GUITAR  PLAYERS  play  a  "cielito,""  while  the  FIRST 

GUITAR  PLAYER  sings  the  follmoing: 
FIRST  GUITAR  PLAYER. 

A  cielito  now  I'll  sing, 

In  honor  of  the  payador, 
Our  Santos  Vega,  gaucho  brave, 

Whose  fame  has  spread  from  shore  to  shore. 
1  Cielito:  literally,  "Little  Heaven,"  a  gaucho  dance. 


62  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  11 

The  girl  that  he  is  dancing  with 

Is  dead  in  love  with  him,  I  see; 
The  light  that  shines  in  her  dark  eyes 

Tells  me  her  secret  malady. 
The  other  maids  are  angry,  too, 

Because  they  cannot  dance  with  him; 
Their  partners  scarce  know  what  to  do, 

Their  eyes  with  jealousy  are  dim. 
Ah,  cielo,  cielito,  cielo, 
Love  is  surely  most  cruel,  0! 
Ah,  Heavens,  what  exquisite  girls! 
For  ev'ry  star  that  in  heaven  whirls 
There  is  a  flower  here  on  earth. 
Of  singers,  too,  there  is  no  dearth! 
A  cielito  now  I've  sung, 

In  honor  of  the  payador. 
There's  no  one  sings  like  him,  I  vow: 
His  fame  has  spread  from  shore  to  shore! 

[The  cielito  ends. 

CONTRERAS.  [To  his  partner]  You  never  even  looked  at  me 
when  we  were  dancing  the  cielito.  You  make  me  very  un- 
happy, little  one. 

SECOND  GIRL.  That's  because  I'm  afraid  to — you've  got  a 
face  like  I  don't  know  what! 

CIRILO.  [To  his  partner]  Thistles  and  brambles  have  thorns, 
and  so  have  your  eyes  when  you  look  at  me. 

FIRST  GIRL.  I  haven't  looked  at  you,  so  how  do  you  know 
I  prick? 

VICENTA.  [Interrupting]  Do  you  think  you're  a  mare  to 
whinny  like  that? 

RUPERTO.  I  always  forget  my  troubles  when  I'm  with  you. 
I  wonder  if  I'm  in  love  with  you! 

THIRD  GIRL.  If  you  find  my  company  comforting  in  spite 
of  your  troubles,  I  don't  know  how  to  answer  you  .  .  . 


ACT  H  SANTOS   VEGA  63 

VICENTA.  [Interrupting]  Ask  your  grandmother! 

SANTOS.  Should  you  forget  me,  I  have  some  black  velvet 
curtains  to  hang  on  my  bed  as  mourning. 

ROSA.  You  mustn't  say  those  things  to  me.  They  hurt. 
Why  do  you  wish  to  mock  me? 

[ARGENTINA'S  voice  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

ARGENTINA.  Santos! 

SANTOS.  [In  surprise]  Argentina's  voice! 

ARGENTINA.  [Nearer]  Santos  Vega! 

SANTOS.  It's  she! 

FIRST  PEON.  [Looking  off  at  right,  up  stage]  There  she  is  on 
a  horse. 

SANTOS.  [Running  to  meet  her]  Argentina ! 

ARGENTINA.  [Enters,  trembling  and  disheveled]  Santos  Vega! 
[They  fall  into  each  other's  arms. 

VICENTA.  Some  new  piece  of  bad  luck. 

SANTOS.  Tell  me  what's  the  matter,  dear? 

ARGENTINA.  I  hardly  know.  A  little  while  ago  I  heard  a 
mysterious  moan,  long  and  sad  like  a  cry  of  agony.  ...  It 
was  like  those  voices  that  touch  you  to  the  very  soul  because, 
'tis  said,  they  come  from  spirits  in  torment.  My  heart  gave 
a  great  leap,  for  I  was  afraid  that  it  was  you  who  had  cried 
out — you  know  my  heart  is  always  full  of  you  when  you  are 
away  from  me,  dear  one.  Without  a  moment's  thought  I 
jumped  on  a  horse  and  came  here  on  the  run,  weeping, 
suffering,  nervous.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  another  voice  kept 
telling  me:  "Go  and  save  him!  Hurry!  Fly!  .  .  .  Your 
Santos  is  in  great  danger!"  I'm  sure  you  are  .  .  .  Something 
tells  me  that  this  fiesta  will  bring  great  harm  to  you.  .  .  . 
My  heart  cannot  lie.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  ranch.  .  .  . 
Come  with  me! 

SANTOS.  Calm  yourself,  dear.  Your  heart  did  not  deceive 
you, for  look!  Right  where  you  are  standing  now,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Cirilo,  I'd  have  been  carved  up  like  a  piece  of  meat! 


64  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  n 

ARGENTINA.  Who  was  it? 

CIRILO.  A  traitor. 

ARGENTINA.  A  traitor  in  our  country! 

SANTOS.  Yes,  a  traitor,  Argentina.  I'd  have  felt  less  badly 
about  it  had  he  killed  me. 

ARGENTINA.  My  love! 

SANTOS.  Let  no  one  hear  of  it. 

GUMERSINDO.  No,  indeed.  Shame  will  keep  our  mouths 
shut. 

ARGENTINA.  But  you  must  be  very  careful,  Santos  dear. 

JACINTO.  [Who  had  come  out  of  the  pulperia  wlien  he  heard 
ARGENTINA'S  voice,  and  had  been  an  angry  observer  of  the 
foregoing]  Greetings,  everybody !  [Starts  to  go] 

RUFINA.  Are  you  going? 

JACINTO.  Naturally! 

SANTOS.  Don't  go.     Come  here. 

JACINTO.  Why  should  I,  after  what  I've  heard? 

SANTOS.  She  loves  me! 

JACINTO.  Let  her!  All  right!  I'm  going,  but,  before  I  do, 
listen  to  this,  my  dear:  your  singer  had  no  sooner  got  here — 
I  saw  him;  I  was  on  the  lookout — than  he  started  to  make 
love  to  another  dove.  [Indicating  ROSA] 

SANTOS.  [Indignantly]  You  lie! 

ARGENTINA.  [Jealously]  Santos! 

ROSA.  It  isn't  true,  Argentina! 

JACINTO.  [As  he  goes  out]  Greetings! 

SANTOS.  [Running  to  detain  him]  Not  yet! 

ARGENTINA.  [Restraining  him]  His  poison  never  reached  my 
soul.  That  heart  of  mine  that  never  lies  would  have  shouted 
a  warning  to  me.  Let  him  go! 

ROSA.  Santos  Vega  only  spoke  about  my  eyes,  because  he 
said  they  reminded  him  of  yours  .  .  . 

SANTOS.  And,  besides,  Santos  Vega  always  has  a  verse  to 
offer  the  women  of  this  land,  because  they  are  love,  and  in 


ACT  ii  SANTOS   VEGA  65 

them  is  our  race.  .  .  .  And  now,  if  everybody  is  willing  I'd 
like  to  dance  a  cielito  with  my  little  heaven! 

[They  again  form  the  couples  as  before,  and  once  more 

the  GUITAR  PLAYERS  play  a  cielito. 
FIRST  GUITAR  PLATER. 

A  cielito  now  I'll  sing 

In  honor  of  the  payador. 
There's  no  one  sings  like  him,  I  vow: 

His  fame  has  spread  from  shore  to  shore! 
[As  he  sings  this,  the  curtain  slowly  descends. 


ACT  THREE 

SCENE  ONE 

A  drop-curtain  painted  as  the  ranchmen's  sleeping-quarters. 
A  door  in  the  center.  CONTRERAS,  GUMERSINDO,  CIRILO, 
VICENTA,  and  several  others  are  discovered.  As  the  curtain 
rises,  CONTRERAS  sings  the  following  to  the  tune  of  SANTOS' 
song  in  the  Second  Act.  He  accompanies  himself  on  the 
guitar. 

CONTRERAS.  Though  bitter  sorrow  is  my  lot, 

'Twill  never,  never  be  my  death. 
So  long  as  I  can  draw  my  breath 
I'll  sing,  and  when  I  sing  there's  naught 
Can  kill  me:    grief  most  sure  cannot. 
A  payador,  I  now  proclaim 
That  herein  am  I  known  to  fame; 

And  when  I  sing  from  my  great  heart 
The  bravest  fall  before  my  art, 
For  Santos  Vega  is  my  name. 
VICENTA.  What  more  could  he  wish! 
GUMERSINDO.  You  can  never  tell. 
CIRILO.  Where  do  you  suppose  Santos  Vega  is? 
GUMERSINDO.  Where  he  usually  is,  partner:    wandering 
from  place  to  place,  singing,  with  liis  horse,  his  sweetheart, 
his  guitar,  and  his  songs.     He  has  his  verses  and  his  guitar 
and  his  sweetheart's  kisses  to  comfort  his  grief.     His  horse 
will  help  him  to  cross  the  pampas,  his  knife  will  defend  his 
liberty,  and  his  songs  will  bring  peace  to  his  soul.     There 

66 


ACT  m  SANTOS   VEGA  67 

isn't  a  creole  who  won't  give  him  shelter,  or  a  lark  that  doesn't 
sing  for  his  consolation,  or  a  girl  who  will  refuse  him  her 
heart  when  she  hears  him  sing.  He  and  his  sweetheart  may 
have  gone  into  the  desert  to  subdue  the  Indians  with  the 
sadness  of  his  music.  Who  knows  but  what  this  very 
minute  he  may  be  saving  some  gaucho's  life  at  the  risk  of  his 
own?  He  is  like  that — always  generous,  noble,  and  just. 
Or  perhaps  he  is  singing  to  his  sweetheart  beneath  some 
ombu  tree.  .  .  .  Yet,  he  must  be  silent,  for  if  he  were  singing 
we  should  hear  him.  His  verses  have  wings  like  doves. 

CIRILO.  What  if  he  were  dead,  old  man? 

GUMERSINDO.  He  is  alive !  Santos  Vega  is  the  song  on  the 
pampa  that  awakens  it  before  dawn;  in  his  soul  are  all  the 
desires,  all  the  grief  and  anxiety,  the  nobility,  the  joy,  and 
the  sorrow  of  our  race.  There  isn't  an  ombu  that  doesn't 
know  the  sound  of  his  guitar,  because  he  has  sung  beneath 
them  all  with  a  song  for  each  leaf.  He  is  not  dead ;  he  lives, 
for  I  do  not  see  how  the  pampas  could  be  silent  without  him. 
It  would  be  as  if  a  beautiful  woman  were  to  fall  in  love  and 
feel  no  pain.  If  he  had  died,  then  why  all  the  finery  that 
adorns  his  country?  Of  what  use  are  we  without  the  emotion 
of  his  music  and  the  love  of  his  soul?  Something  would 
have  told  us  that  he  no  longer  breathed — the  sun  would  have 
gone  behind  a  cloud,  the  pampas  would  have  veiled  them- 
selves in  mourning.  .  .  . 

RUPERTO.  [Entering  cautiously]  Pst!    Cirilo — they're  here! 

CIRILO.  Who? 

RUPERTO.  The  police! 

CIRILO.  Curse  them! 

RUPERTO.  They've  already  dismounted. 

GUMERSINDO.  You'd  better  run  for  it,  my  friend. 

VICENTA.  Don't  give  yourself  up. 

[CIRILO  resolves  to  escape,  and  runs  toward  the  door, 
but  just  as  he  reaches  it  the  FIRST  SOLDIER  bars  his  way. 


68  S  A  N  T  O  S   V  E  G  A  ACT  in 

SOLDIER.  No,  you  don't!  We'll  go  to  the  judge  together,  if 
you  please! 

CIRILO.  [Unsheathing  his  knife]  Stand  aside! 

SOLDIER.  [To  others  outside]  Come  in!  [Enter  four  more 
SOLDIERS]  You  see,  my  friend?  I  am  in  good  company.  Do 
you  want  to  put  up  a  fight  so  I  can  show  you  how  well  I 
learned  my  lesson?  There  are  still  more  outside.  Take  his 
knife  away  from  him!  [The  SOLDIERS  start  to  obey,  but 
CIRILO  dashes  his  knife  to  the  floor]  That's  the  way  I  like  to 
see  you  act! 

CIRILO.  [Embracing  GUMERSINDO]  Good-by,  old  friend. 

SOLDIER.  Take  him  away. 

CIRILO.  [Going  out  with  the  SOLDIERS]  Come  on,  you 
thieves! 

SOLDIER.  If  he  tries  to  run,  strike  him  down.  [A  sliort 
pause]  Where  is  the  other  fighting -cock? 

VICENTA.  Which  one? 

SOLDIER.  The  celebrated  singer.     Isn't  he  here? 

GUMERSINDO.  I  swear  he  hasn't  even  been  here. 

SOLDIER.  He's  in  luck! 

GUMEHSINDO.  And  you're  in  better  luck  still.  You've  got 
to  be  pretty  thirsty  to  drink  out  of  that  barrel! 

SOLDIER.  [As  he  goes  out]  He'll  get  his  deserts. 

GUMERSINDO.  [After  a  pause]  You'll  get  yours,  too! 

RUPERTO.  We  never  get  fair  play — not  even  from  God, 
for  all  that  they  say  He's  so  good. 

GUMERSINDO.  That  would  be  the  best  of  all. 

VICENTA.  It's  something  priests  sell,  like  goods  iu  a 
pul  per  fa. 

GUMERSINDO.  Nobody  thinks  of  us.  We're  most  unfor- 
tunate. 

FIRST  PEON.  [Who  has  been  looking  through  the  door] 
They're  running  off  like  a  pack  of  Indians. 

RUPERTO.  [Looking  out]  Cheats!    With  those  horses! 


ACT  in  SANTOS    VEGA  69 

GUMERSINDO.  Like  Indians  .  .  .  you're  right.  They  are 
just  like  Indians! 

RUPERTO.  Ugh!  They  are  rushing  off  as  if  they  were 
going  to  join  an  uprising!  I  can  hardly  see  them  now! 

GUMERSINDO.  We  ought  to  have  fought  them  all. 

RUPERTO.  What  for?  They  would  have  taken  him  just 
the  same.  If  he  hadn't  surrendered,  they'd  have  carved  him 
up.  Why,  they  brought  a  whole  troop!  They  had  an  idea 
they  were  going  to  find  Santos  Vega  here. 

VICENTA.  If  that  brave  lad  had  been  here  he'd  have  fought 
the  whole  troop! 

RUPERTO.  He'd  have  been  killed  doing  it. 

GUMERSINDO.  But  he'd  have  risked  his  life  gladly  to  save 
Cirilo.  He'd  have  shown  us  that  it's  a  hard  job  to  carve 
up  a  bull  like  him!  He's  good  at  singing,  but  he's  a  tiger 
at  fighting. 

[Pause.     ARGENTINA,  visibly  worn,  silently  appears  in 
the  doorway. 

ARGENTINA.  God  keep  you,  good  people. 

[Tliey   are   all   'pleasantly   surprised. 

VICENTA.  [Embracing  her}  Argentina! 

ARGENTINA.  Vicenta! 

GUMERSINDO.  My  child! 

ARGENTINA.  My  old  friend! 

RUPERTO.  What's  the  news? 

VICENTA.  What  brings  you  here  so  suddenly? 

RUPERTO.  Did  you  come  alone? 

FIRST  PEON.  Where's  your  singer? 

ARGENTINA.  [Sadly]  Ah,  my  singer! 

GUMERSINDO.  [In  alarm]  Not  dead? 

ARGENTINA.  [Exaltedly]  Alive!  If  I  still  live,  who  can  con- 
ceive of  his  being  dead? 

GuMEPvSiNDO.  Where  is  he? 

ARGENTINA.  Resting. 


70  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  m 

VICENTA.  Did  he  come  with  you? 

ARGENTINA.  Would  I  have  come  otherwise?  I  could  no 
more  exist  without  him  than  there  can  be  light  without  the 
sun,  perfumes  without  flowers,  songs  without  singers,  cooing 
without  doves,  or  life  without  love.  So  you  may  be  sure  that 
my  singer  must  be  alive.  He  is  asleep  beneath  that  dear  old 
omlm  where  we  first  met  and  where  he  first  kissed  me. 

GUMERSINDO.  That's  all  I  need  to  hear!  [Starts  to  go  out. 

ARGENTINA.  [Detaining  him]  Don't  wake  him  up;  he  is  suf- 
fering terribly. 

GUMERSINDO.  What  from? 

ARGENTINA.  From  a  presentiment  that  his  death  is  near. 

GUMERSINDO.  Is  it  so  serious? 

ARGENTINA.  He  has  not  suffered  so  in  a  long  time.  Some- 
how or  other  he  seems  to  have  been  hurt,  badly  hurt.  He 
is  suffering  as  he  used  to  before  the  blessed  day  when  I 
changed  his  grief  to  joy.  He  weeps  as  he  used  to  weep.  .  .  . 
He  no  longer  sings  as  he  did — for  love  of  m».  He's  so  un- 
happy that  he  sobs  when  he  sings  now.  .  .  . 

[Weeping  bitterly,  ARGENTINA  goes  out,  and,  after  her, 
the  others. 

SCENE  Two 

The  drop-curtain  rises  slowly,  disclosing  a  bit  of  the  pampas. 
In  the  center  is  an  enormous  ombu,  beneath  the  foliage 
of  which  sleeps  SANTOS  VEGA.  His  guitar  is  leaning 
against  the  trunk.  His  unsaddled  horse  stands  a  feui  paces 
from  him.  It  is  cvenfall.  In  the  distance  can  be  seen  the 
crimson  splendor  of  the  dying  sun.  All  the  persons  of  the 
foregoing  scene  surround  the  ombu,  watching  SANTOS  VEGA. 
ARGENTINA  is  at  his  side. 

ARGENTINA.  [Deeply  mwed]  Sleep,  my  love,  while  your  sor- 
rowing friends  watch  over  you.  Grief  has  silenced  the  cooing 


ACT  m  SANTOS    VEGA  71 

of  the  doves,  and  even  the  sun  is  sinking  sadly — slowly  dying, 
bleeding.  .  .  .  The  pampas  are  silent,  fearful  of  disturbing  your 
rest.  Near  you  is  your  beloved  sweetheart.  You  need  fear 
your  presentiment  no  longer,  for  all  the  brave  men  of  your 
race  are  here  with  you.  [Pause.] 

SANTOS.  [In  his  dreams]  You,  here! 

GUMEBSINDO.  Santos  Vega! 

ARGENTINA.  My  love! 

SANTOS.  You  cannot  do  it.  No  one  can  defeat  me.  The 
best  of  them  yield  to  me. 

RUPERTO.  Wake  him  up. 

ARGENTINA.  My  love! 

SANTOS.  You  must  yield.  No  one  can  defeat  me,  much 
less  a  foreigner.  I  have  always  been  the  victor — no  one 
sings  better  than  I.  [After  a  pause  he  bursts  into  tears]  Argen- 
tina! They  have  beaten  your  singer! 

ARGENTINA.  [Trying  to  wake  him]  Wake  up!  You  are 
dreaming.  Santos,  it's  I  speaking! 

SANTOS.  [Wakes  in  surprise.  Sits  up,  looks  slowly  about 
him,  and  embraces  ARGENTINA]  I  thought  I  was  having  a 
singing  contest  with  Satan. 

GUMERSINDO.  Santos! 

SANTOS.  My  old  friend!    Greetings,  everybody! 

RUPERTO.  You've  been  dreaming! 

SANTOS.  [Absently]  Of  course!  .  .  . 

GUMERSINDO.  [Laughing]  Pshaw,  my  good  friend!  Why 
did  you  shout  so? 

SANTOS.  [Sadly  preoccupied]  It  is  nothing  to  laugh  about, 
old  friend.  It  hurts  me,  for  I  know  that  I  shall  die  like  that 
—singing. 

GUMERSINDO.  Canejo!    Santos  Vega  is  losing  his  nerve. 

SANTOS.  I  have  never  lost  my  nerve;  but  the  devil  is  a  great 
singer  and  he's  after  me. 

GUMERSINDO.  And  so  you  don't  want  me  to  laugh,  partner? 


72  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  m 

SANTOS.  Of  course  not!  You  see,  my  friend,  if  I  lose,  I 
die. 

GUMERSINDO.  But  who  is  going  to  beat  you? 

SANTOS.  I  don't  know  .  .  .  it's  a  presentiment.  [Pause. 
Then,  fearfully]  I  just  dreamed  how  and  who  it  would  be! 

GUMERSINDO.  Tell  us  about  it. 

SANTOS.  [Scarcely  master  of  himself  as  yet]  It  was  right  here. 
My  darling  was  at  my  side,  here,  beneath  the  ombu  .  .  .  and 
there  were  several  gauchos,  as  there  are  now,  listening  to  my 
unhappy  story.  .  .  .  The  sun  was  slowly  sinking,  just  as  it  is 
now.  Everything  was  hushed  .  .  .  very  still.  Nothing  was 
heard  on  the  pampas.  I  was  very  unhappy,  because  my 
presentiment  was  circling  about  my  head  in  the  shape  of  a 
huge,  fierce  bird.  I  did  not  dare  to  look  at  it,  and,  besides, 
no  one  else  saw  it.  I  was  trembling  with  cold  terror,  as  I 
am  now.  .  .  .  Ah!  [Shudders] 

ARGENTINA.  [In  alarm]  Santos! 

SANTOS.  [Growing  more  and  more  excited]  That  is  just  what 
you  said!  And  I  said  to  you  through  my  tears:  Tell  me, 
beloved,  you  who  are  my  life,  the  flowers  in  my  path,  my 
dearest  song;  who  soothed  me  so  tenderly;  who  gave  me 
a  new  soul;  who  comforted  me  in  my  distress;  my  sweet- 
heart .  .  .  Argentina  dear,  if  I  should  die  would  you 
keep  me  in  your  heart?  And  you  answered  .  .  . 

ARGENTINA.  [Interrupting  him]  Their  aroma  outlives  the 
flowers,  but  if  the  singer  dies,  his  sweetheart  must  die,  too. 
But  the  soul  of  the  singer  will  never  pass  away,  the  winds 
will  vibrate  to  the  echoes  of  his  songs,  and  in  the  hearts  of  all 
his  race  the  indomitable  payador  will  leave  an  everlasting 
memory  to  prove  a  menace  to  the  conqueror! 

GUMERSINDO.  And  our  whole  gaucho  soul,  strong,  and 
tempered  with  our  grief,  will  make  a  banner  from  a  piece 
of  the  singer's  heaven. 

SANTOS,  That  is  just  what  they  all  said.    But  my  pre- 


ACT  in  SANTOS   VEGA  73 

sentiment  overwhelmed  me  with  its  torture  .  .  .  suddenly  .  .  . 
they  all  fell  silent.  Argentina  threw  her  arms  about  me  as  if 
to  defend  me.  I  struggled  to  get  free.  My  voice  choked,  and 
I  felt  a  cold  chill  in  my  heart:  for,  friends,  I  saw  before  me  a 
payador  from  a  strange  land!  But  the  devil  was  concealed 
beneath  his  clothing.  .  .  .  My  old  friend,  you  should  have 
heard  how  beautifully  he  spoke!  And  he  said  his  name 
was  Juan  Sin  Ropa! 

JUAN  SIN  ROPA.  [Suddenly  appearing  before  them]  Who 
speaks  my  name? 

SANTOB.  [Terrified]  It's  he! 

GUMERSINDO.  [In  alarm]  Santos  Vega! 

JUAN  SIN  ROPA.  I  am  a  wanderer  seeking  conquest,  glory, 
and  fame.  I  would  vanquish  the  plains  and  surmount  the 
Sierras  .  .  .  wherever  there  are  peoples  to  conquer.  I  would 
seize  the  fruits  of  the  land  for  my  own  and  climb  to  the 
topmost  peak  of  the  mountains,  there  to  enforce  my  power 
over  all.  I  am  a  new  breath  that  reaches  you  with  the  wild 
fury  of  a  mighty  hurricane.  The  fleetest  and  most  spirited 
of  your  horses  runs  not  so  swiftly  as  mine.  His  tracks  scar 
the  earth  like  fire.  They  are  deep  and  painful.  Later  they 
shall  become  land  wasted  by  war,  or  gleam  with  the  gold  of 
generous  ears  of  corn.  I  bring  you  new  verses  of  minstrel 
genius,  beautiful  songs  of  triumph,  of  fortune,  of  love.  .  .  . 

ARGENTINA.  We  have  the  songs  of  our  payadors.  What 
do  you  want  with  us? 

JUAN  SIN  ROPA.  To  conquer  Santos  Vega;  for  with  him 
out  of  the  way,  it  will  be  easier  to  subdue  the  others. 

ARGENTINA.  He  is  the  music  and  flower  of  our  land! 

JUAN  SIN  ROPA.  I  am  a  warrior,  but  I  am  also  a  sower  of 
seeds;  and  one  must  pluck  flowers  in  order  to  sow  seeds! 

ARGENTINA.  One  might  as  well  pluck  the  heart  from  one's 
breast  .  .  .  but  perhaps  you  have  a  talon  instead  of  a  heart? 

JUAN  SIN  ROPA.  I  must  conquer  him! 


74  SANTOS    VEGA  ACT  m 

SANTOS.  [Heroically]  No  one  can  do  that — least  of  all  a 
foreigner. 

GUMERSINDO.  That  is  like  Santos  Vega. 
SANTOS.  [To  ARGENTINA]  Give  me  my  guitar,  my  love. 

[A  moment  of  profound  silence.  ARGENTINA  takes  the 
guitar  and,  before  handing  it  to  the  singer,  says,  with 
great  emotion:] 

ARGENTINA.  My  payador's  dear  guitar.    You  have  sung  of 

my  love;  you  have  wept  when  I  was  sad  and  laughed  when  I 

was  happy.     How  much  sorrow  is  hidden  within  your  silent 

strings!    How  often  have  your  chords  sounded  like  the  moan 

of  a  breaking  heart!    In  moments  of  passion  you   have 

quivered  and  laughed  and  sobbed  like  a  living  heart  beneath 

his  fingers.     You  must  now  sing  as  you  have  never  sung 

before — proudly,  strongly,  bravely.  .  .  .  With  this  kiss  I  now 

place  my  soul  into  the  keeping  of  your  strings,  guitar  of  mine ! 

[Kisses  the  guitar.     Deeply  moved,  the  famous  payador 

takes  the  guitar  from  ARGENTINA  and  sits  beneath 

the  legendary  ombu.    He  begins  with  a  prelude  with 

which  the  deep  sobs  that  escape  from  his  breast  are 

mingled. 

SANTOS.       My  only  joy  and  truest  friend 

I  find  in  my  well-tuned  guitar. 
Within  its  silver  strings  there  are 
Sweet  melodies  that  melt  and  blend, 
And  stay  with  me  until  the  emd. 
Without  its  solace  I  should  die. 
I  taught  it  first  to  sing,  yes,  I, 
And  then  to  weep  and  suffer  pain; 
And  when  I  pass  away  I  fain 
Would  have  it  with  me  where  I  lie. 
JUAN  SIN  ROPA.  [Declaims  the  following:] 
Guitar  of  mine: 
Your  voice  is  womanly,  sonorous,  sweet.  .  .  . 


ACT  in  SANTOS    VEGA  75 

Before  you  came  to  have  your  present  shape 
You  were  a  Moorish  maid;    in  all  the  world 
There  breathed  no  other  maid  so  beautiful. 
Small  wonder  that 
As  my  guitar 

You  are  so  skilled  in  winning  love  for  me. 
The  first  guitar,  you  were  my  greatest  love. 
I  first  beheld  you  as  that  Moorish  maid, 
A  maid  divine  in  body  and  in  soul. 
You  sing,  and  men  go  mad  with  passion's  heat 
To  hear  the  beauty  of  your  melting  chords. 
You  sigh  as  when  a  maiden  yields  her  love. 
You  are  the  people's  muse — 
And  when  you  laugh,  or  sob, 
Your  strings  are  like  a  woman's  quiv'ring  soul. 
'  [While  JUAN  SIN  ROPA  recites  ttie  foregoing,  SANTOS 
VEGA  begins  to  realize  that  he  has  met  his  doom. 
Whe.n  the  apostrophe  is  finished,  SANTOS  drops  his 
guitar  and  presses  his  hands  to  his  heart. 
ARGENTINA.  [In  despair]  Santos!    Santos! 
SANTOS.  [Sobbing]  Friends,  I  am  beaten! 
ARGENTINA.  My  love! 
SANTOS.  He  is  the  devil! 
GUMERSINDO.  Santos  Vega 

SANTOS.  [With  a  supreme  effort]  But,  no — the  best  of  them 
yield  to  me!  My  guitar!  [ARGENTINA  again  gives  it  to  him. 
SANTOS  takes  it,  embraces  it,  and  makes  an  effort  to  play  it,  but 
it  falls  from  his  hands  and  he  sinks  to  the  ground]  Argentina, 
he  has  beaten  me! 

[The  famous  singer  dies.     The  sun  scarcely  illumines 

the  countryside. 

ARGENTINA.  [Wild  with  grief,  frantic,  raving,  kisses  the  face 
of  her  lover  again  and  again]  Santos! .  .  .  My  life! . .  .  My  soul! 
. .  .  My  soul ! .  .  . 


76  SANTOS   VEGA  ACT  m 

GUMERSINDO.  [Indicating  JUAN  SIN  ROPA  with  a  gesture  of 
Jiatred]  By  the  looks  of  him,  if  he  isn't  the  devil  he's  worse! 

ARGENTINA.  [Standing  erect  over  the  body  of  her  lover,  as  a 
propfietess  she  heroically  declaims  the  following  symbolic  lines 
to  the  gauckos]  Weep!  For  the  singer  is  dead  .  .  .  and  with 
him  dies  liis  whole  race! 

\TJie  gauchos  reverently  uncover. 

Slmv  Curtain 


THE  WITCHES'   MOUNTAIN 

(La  Montana  de  Brujas) 

A   TRAGEDY   IN   THREE  ACTS 

BY  JULIO  SANCHEZ  GARDEL 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

LEON 
DON  TADEO 
INDA 
DANIEL 
JUAN  DE  Dios 

ZOILA 

TOBIAS  , 
CAMPOSANTO 
PIQUILLIN 
LUPIPA 

RUPERTO 

Musicians  and  Guests 

SETTING  FOR  ALL  THREE  ACTS 

A  lonely  ranch  in  the  Andes. 

On  the  left,  down  stage,  w  the  entrance  to  the  cook-house. 
Up  stage,  on  the  left,  is  the  entrance  to  INDA'S  cabin. 

On  the  right,  down  stage,  is  another  cabin.  DON  TADEO'S. 
Farther  up  stage  is  tJie  men's  dormitory.  Behind  this  can  be 
seen  part  of  the  foliage  of  a  carob  tree. 

A  background  of  mountains.  The  landscape  is  desolate, 
somber,  rough,  forbidding.  Rocks  of  alt  shapes  and  sizes 
dominate  the  scene. 

Strewn  about  the  stage  are  tools,  lassos,  saddles,  bridle!?, 
saddle  pads,  harness  bells,  harness,  etc.,  etc.  There  is  a  small 
rustic  table  and  two  or  three  old  straw  chairs. 


u 

\  <,  rk 


THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN 


ACT  ONE 

i'K 

Dawn  is  breaking.  PiQuiLiiN  enters  from  Hie  dormitory  rub- 
bing his  eyes,  crosses  to  and  enters  tfie  cook-house';  after 
a  moment  he  reappears,  carrying  two  buckets  and  goes  out, 
up  stage,  to  the  right. 

After  a  little  DANIEL  enters  from  the  cabin  on  the  right,  crosses 
the  stage,  and  disappears,  up  stage,  to  the  right.  He  is 
followed  in  turn  by  JUAN  DE  DIGS  from  the  dormitory 
and  iNDA/ro/n  her  cabin.  {,'/-. 

It  is  now  full  daylight. 

TOBIAS  enters  from  the  left,  sits  beneath  the  eaves  of  TADEO'S 
cabin,  and  begins  to  braid  a  lasso.  A  moment  later  ZOILA 
enters  from  the  cook-house,  sifting  corn. 

ZOILA.  Up  and  at  work  so  early! 

TOBIAS.  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  finish  braiding  this  lasso. 

ZOILA.  Who  is  it  for? 

TOBIAS.  You  can  be  sure  it's  not  for  Leon. 

ZOILA.  Is  it  for  Daniel? 

TOBIAS.  The  same.  He  left  his  down  below,  and  so  Don 
Tadeo  wants  me  to  make  him  one  out  of  the  best  horse- 
hide.  Seeing  that  it's  for  him!  .  .  . 

ZOILA.  [With  a  certain  misgiving]  It  seems  to  me  that  Don 
Tadeo  doesn't  like  anybody  but  Daniel. 

TOBIAS.  Maybe  .  .  . 

79 


80  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN        ACT  i 

ZOILA.  [Meaningly]  You  know  a  great  deal  about  Don 
Tadeo!  [TOBIAS  looks  at  her  and  shrugs  his  shoulders} , Re.     .y(  (tl 
didn't  sleep  here  nor  anywhere  else  last  night.     Just  before 
daybreak  I  felt  sick  and  went  out  to  look  for  some  myrtle 
over  by  the  old  stone  wall,  when  suddenly,  through  a  clearing, 

I  saw  Don  Tadeo  himself  on  the  Alto  del  Molle  cliff,  standing 
i  <f  i"1- 

with  his  arms  crossed  and  looking  down.     He  seemed  made 

of  stone.  When  I  came  back,  there  he  was,  in  the  same 
place  and  in  the  same  position.^  What  could  he  have  been 
looking  at? 

TOBIAS.  How  do  I  know?  .  .  . 

ZOILA.  That's  where  he  threw  that  muleteer  over  the  cliff 
...  at  the  very  same  hour  .  .  .  the  same  day  of  the  year  .  .  . 
the  same  kind  of  a  night .  .  .  and  nothing  was  ever  seen  of  him. 
Was  there?  .  .  .  Not  even  his  bones?  .  .  . 

TOBIAS.  I  don't  know  .  .  .  anything.  \Why  do  you  speak 
of  those  things,  eh? 

ZOILA.  I  always  remember  it  like  that. 

TOBIAS.  I  don't  want  to  know  anything.  Didn't  I  tell 
you  never  to  speak  to  me  about  that,  old  witch? 

ZOILA.  You're  afraid!  [Laughs]     ?li 

TOBIAS.  Afraid!  ...  Of  what? 

ZOILA.  You  ...  or  the  devil  ought  to  know. 

TOBIAS.  I'm  talking  to  him  now. 

ZOILA.  Secrets  are  like  poison,  Tobias:  they  kill  if  you 
keep  them  inside  you. 

Enter  INU A,  vp  stage,  carrying  a  bucket  of  milk 

INDA.  Has  Leon  got  back  yet,  Father? 

TOBIAS.  No. 

INDA.  He  said  he  would  get  back  today. 

TOBIAS.  He  may  yet;   the  sun  isn't  very  high. 

ZOILA.  Is  that  milk  for  breakfast? 

INDA.  No,  it's  for  making  curds. 

ZOILA.  You  know,  Tobias  .  .  .  secrets  ...  Ha!  Ha!  ... 


ACT  i        THE   WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  81 

-&L.  *{fc 
[ZoiLA  goes  out.    INDA  puts  the  bucket  of  milk  on  a 

bench  at  the  left.  -, ct_i 

INDA.  [Coming  closer}  Father! 

+**"        /****' 

TOBIAS.  Yes? 
INDA.  I'm  afraid. 

TOBIAS.  You,  too!  /  Since  when?  You've  never  been 
afraid  before. 

/  .     ,  1      <'l  /i\ 

INDA.  Since  Daniel  got  back. 

TOBIAS.  Daniel?    What  for? 

INDA.  I  don't  know  . . .  but  when  he  looks  at  me  his  eyes  . . . 

TOBIAS.  Like  his  father's?    Has  he  Don  Tadeo's  eyes,  Inda? 

INDA.  No,  they're  not  the  same.  Don  Tadeo's  eyes  are 
cold.  Daniel  doesn't  look  at  me  like  that.  His  eyes  burn 
— h'ke  fire.x\  - 

TOBIAS.  No,  Inda,  that  can't  be  so. 

INDA.  Yes,  Father,  I'm  right.  They  look  like  cat's  eyes 
in  the  dark. 

TOBIAS.  But  doesn't  he  know  that  you  are  going  to  marry 
liis  brother  Leon?  Haven't  you  told  him? 

INDA.  Yes,  he  knows  it.  ...  I  told  him  and  he  laughed  .  .  . 
like  Don  Tadeo.  .  .  .  The  same  kind  of  a  laugh! 

TOBIAS.  Poor  Leon!     He  has  enough  troubles  already. 

INDA.  [After  a  "pause}  Then  why  don't  we  go  away,  Father? 
Why  live  like  this? 

TOBIAS.  Go  away?    Did  you  say  go  away? 

INDA.  I  did. 

TOBIAS.  Go  away!  »  Do  you  suppose  I  can  leave?  My 
poor  child!  You  don't  know  what  holds  me  here.  .  .  .  You 
don't  know!  Why,  it's  killing  me.  ...  I  only  wish  it  would 
soon  end  this  miserable  life  of  mine!  Why  should  I  want  to 
live?  Eh?  I  can  never  be  my  own  master.  .  .  .  The  other  is 
always  with  me,  telling  me  what  I  must  do,  and  lie  doesn't 
want  me  to  go  away  because  he's  afraid  of  what  I  know, 
Inda.  .  ,  .  And  I  know  so  many  things  \ 


INDA.  Are  you  bewitched,  Father? 

TOBIAS.  I'm  beginning  to  think  I  am.  <K/l"iL 

INDA.  But  who  has  bewitched  you? 

TOBIAS.  Who?    Don  Tadeo— the  devil  himself!' 

INDA.  [Frightened]  Father! 

TOBIAS.  Yes,  the  devil  himself!  Himself!  He  has  me  in 
his  power,  chained  to  his  will.  Those  eyes  of  his  that  look 
so  cold  and  faded  have  the  power  of  snakes.  You  have  to 
give  in,  and  he  makes  you  do  anything  he  wants.  When  he 
looks  at  you  it's  just  as  if  he  stabbed  you  with  a  knife  ...  it 
gives  you  a  cold  chill. ...  So  far,  I  have  never  seen  a  man  who 
could  stand  up  to  him.  ^Wlien  I  was  a  lad  I  used  to  see  him 
when  he  had  to  break  in  a  wild  colt,  one  of  those  animals 
that  won't  even  stand  a  flea  on  their  back;  all  he  did  was  to 
take  him  by  the  ears,  look  at  him  hard,  and  jump  on  his  back. 
The  colt  would  foam  at  the  mouth  like  a  madman  at  first, 
but  finally  he  would  give  up  and  cave  in  like  a  heap  of  straw.  , 
t  He  has  the  same  power,  only  more  so,  over  women.  When- 
ever he  took  a  fancy  to  one  and  complimented  her  a  couple 
of  times,  she  was  like  putty.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  they 
hated  him  and  loved  him  at  the  same  time.  I've  never  seen 
a  man  with  more  nerve.  They  always  ran  away  from  him  as 
from  the  devil,  but  then  they'd  come  back  and  grovel  at  his 
feet  and  insult  him  in  the  worst  way  right  to  his  face.  But 
he  just  kept  on  laughing  and  laughing  with  that  same  hollow 
laugh  of  his  and  looking  at  them  with  his  small  eyes..*  It's  a 
good  thing  that  Daniel  has  his  mother's  eyes — it  certainly  is! 
But  in  everything  else  he  is  just  like  Don  Tadeo,  Inda,  and 
I  wouldn't  want  you  to  have  the  agony  of  crawling  to  his 
feet  and  groveling.  No,  Inda,  my  child,  I  wouldn't  want  to 
see  you  like  that.  Before  I  would  allow  that  I'd  put  out 
your  eyes  with  thorns  so  you  couldn't  see  his  eyes,  and  then, 
if  he  still  bewitched  you  with  his  desire,  I'd  choke  you  with 
all  my  strength,  with  my  two  hands,  like  this  .  .  .  and  break 


ACT  i        THE   WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  83 

£  "  i-'V  *•<: 

your  neck  as  I  would  a  chicken's  .  .  .  and  then  I'd  throw  you 
from  the  cliff — from  the  highest  peak,  so  you  would  have 
farther  to  fall! 

INDA.  Don  Tadeo! 

[DON  TADEO,  somber,  with  his  arms  crossed,  appears 
up  stage. 

TADEO.  [After  a  pause]  Where  are  you  going? 

INDA.  I'm  going  after  some  fig  leaves  to  curdle  the  milk 
with.  [Goes  out,  up  stage,  to  the  right. 

TADEO.  [After  a  pause]  Have  you  seen  anything  on  Alto 
Grande,  old  man? 

TOBIAS.  On—? 

TADEO.  The  same. 

TOBIAS.  I've  seen  nothing. 

TADEO.  You  don't  go  up  there  often,  do  you? 

TOBIAS.  No,  indeed.  [Pause] 

TADEO.  [Laughing]  Are  you  afraid  of  the  dead  man? 

TOBIAS.  I? 

TADEO.  Doesn't  he  keep  you  company  sometimes  at  night, 
when  you're  alone? 

TOBIAS.  No.      »'•  ' 

TADEO.  You're  luckier  than  I  am.  Last  night  I  was  alone 
in  my  room  ...  I  couldn't  sleep,  so  I  lit  the  candle.  Suddenly 
I  heard  some  one  knocking.  "Come  in!"  I  called.  The  door 
stayed  shut,  but  something  came  into  the  room.  I  saw  my 
saddle-bags  move  as  if  some  one  was  going  through  them, 
and  then  my  candle  went  out.  [A  short  pause]  What  do  you 
think  of  that?  I  started  to  laugh  all  by  myself  like  a  mad- 
man, but  then  I  got  angry  and  went  over  there . . .  understand? 
...  to  see  if  I  could  find  anything.  I  saw  nothing.  All 
the  better  for  him — for  once  I  get  my  hands  on  a  fellow,  I 
tell  you  he  never  gets  up  again.  I'm  disgusted  with  him.  He 
never  lets  me  sleep  now,  and  I  can't  tend  to  the  affairs  of  the 
ranch.  I've  thought  of  Daniel  in  that  connection;  of  letting 


84  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN        ACT  I 

-i+r**i   A.f    '/•Vvj    **^/t**x    " 

him  have  charge.  -All  these  things  trouble  me  a  lot  inside, 
for  all  that  I  seem  to  laugh. 

TOBIAS.  What  about  Leon? 
,"  I      TADEO.  What  for?    Daniel  is  very  capable,  and  very  much 

of  a  man  ...  in  every  way! 

'       r  t  4  <*«*•-  v 

TOBIAS.  So  is  Leon. 

TADEO.  Daniel  is  more  than  good  enough!  [A  short  pause] 
I  know  what  you're  getting  at.  But  it  will  be  a  great  deal 
better  in  every  way  for  you  and  for  ...  Inda. 

TOBIAS.  For  me  and  Inda? 

TADEO.  More  for  Inda  than  for  you. 

TOBIAS.  No,  not  that!  I  won't  have  it!  No,  Don  Tadeo, 
no! 

TADEO.  [Laughing]  Bah!    Don't  be  a  baby,  old  man! 

TOBIAS.  But  Leon  is  your  son,  too! 

TADEO.  [Dramatically]  My  son!  [Again  lauglis]  My  son! 
Have  you  forgotten  the  affair  on  the  cliff  already? 

TOBIAS.  No;  it  wasn't  so!    He  is  your  son!    Your  son! 

TADEO.  [Still  laughing]  Don't  be  a  baby!  My  son,  indeed! 
[Enter  PIQUILLIN  with  a  bucket  of  milk,  up  stage.  He  starts 
to  enter  the  cook-house]  Laugh!  You  laugh,  too!  [PIQUILLIN 
laughs  idiotically]  That's  funny!  My  son!  Don't  be  a  baby, 
old  man! 

[Goes  out  at  right,  laughing  bitterly,  striking  with  his  whip 
at  everything  in  his  way.  INDA  enters  a  moment 
later. 

INDA.  [To  TOBIAS,  who  stands  at  one  side  of  tJie  stage,  dis- 
couraged and  gloomy]  What's  the  matter,  Father?  What  did 
Don  Tadeo  say  to  you? 

TOBIAS.  \Vhy  should  I  tell  you?  Why  trouble  you?  I 
have  no  will  power  ...  I  am  like  that  rock  ...  I  am  speechless ! 
I  must  keep  on  chewing  the  poison  I  have  within  me!  My 
poor  child!  My  poor  child! 

Enter  DANIEL  and  JUAN  DE  Dios 


ACT  i        THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  85 

DANIEL.  [With  a  sarcastic  laugh]  That's  all  right;  it  was 
nothing;  just  a  tumble.  Rub  a  little  tallow  on  it  tonight. 
But  who  put  you  up  to  such  things?  Tune  up  your  strings 
and  sing  the  best  you  know  how,  but  don't  try  to  play  the 
brave  man  with  me. 

Enter  PIQUILLIN    » 

INDA.  What  happened? 

DANIEL.  Why,  I  invited  this  lad  to  take  a  ride  on  Malacara, 
and  he  accepted  the  invitation.  "Look  out  or  he'll  throw 
you,"  I  said;  and  the  lad,  who  had  been  talking  and  boasting 
a  good  deal,  answered,  "I  can  do  what  others  can  do."  .  .  . 
What  others  can  do,  indeed!  Don't  make  me  laugh!"  .  .  . 
He  had  no  sooner  got  on  his  back  than  Malacara  gave  a  jump 
and  landed  him  on  his  head  in  the  mud.  [PIQUILLIN  laughs 
stupidly]  It  certainly  was  laughable!  You  should  have  seen 
his  face,  Inda,  when  he  got  up!  His  own  mother  wouldn't 
have  known  him! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  [Threateningly,  to  PIQUILLIN]  What  are  you 
laughing  at? 

DANIEL.  [Imperiously]  Let  the  boy  alone.  What  are  you 
mad  at?  Can't  you  see  I'm  laughing,  too?  [To  PIQUILLIN] 
That's  enough.  [Pause]  It  was  your  good  luck  that  you 
didn't  hit  the  stone  wall.  Riding  Malacara!  But,  do 
you  know  what  it  is  to  break  a  mountain  colt?  You've 
got  to  have  a  lot  of  strength  here,  and  here;  you've  got 
to  guess  what  he's  going  to  do  so  as  to  jump  on  his  back, 
for  the  animal  guesses,  too,  and  knows  who  is  going  to 
mount  him;  and,  above  all,  my  lad,  you've  got  to  have 
nerve — which  you  haven't!  [Provocatively] 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  [Threateningly]  I  haven't? 

DANIEL.  Look  at  him!  He's  angry!  Don't  be  offended, 
my  lad;  it  wasn't  such  a  bad  fall.  Why  should  we  fight 
now?  Wait  for  another  reason  [meaningly,  for  INDA'S 
benefit]  which  we'll  be  sure  to  have — and  then  we'll  fight 


88  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN        ACT  I 

if  you  want  to.     What  the  devil!    I  can't  contradict  my 
own  guest! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Whenever  you  wish.    I'm  not  afraid  of  you. 

DANIEL.  Fine! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  I'm  not  Malacara! 

DANIEL.  Splendid !  That's  what  I  have  this  for  [drcws  his 
knife]  when  my  hands  fail  me.  Don't  misunderstand  me. 
Look  at  it;  we're  not  going  to  fight  now.  Take  hold  of  it. 
Try  to  bend  the  point.  Not  even  you  can  do  it!  [To  PIQUI- 
LLIN]  Nobody  can.  Test  it!  See  how  heavy  it  is,  old  man. 
It  goes  in  easy  and  would  cut  stone.  [He  chips  the  table  vrith  a 
blow]  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  it,  Inda!  Take  hold  of  it! 

INDA.  Afraid?    I'm  not  afraid  of  any  one. 

DANIEL.  Not  even  of  me? 

INDA.  Not  of  any  one,  I  tell  you! 

DANIEL.  [Laughing]  I  like  that!  You're  just  like  me, 
Inda,  just  like  me! 

Enter  DON  TADEO 

TADEO.  [To  TOBIAS]  Here,  old  man,  saddle  up  the  mule  and 
go  over  to  Morrito  de  la  Esquina  and  get  Pastor,  the  blind 
man,  with  the  two  musicians  who  were  playing  at  a  baby's 
wake  the  night  before  last,  then  go  over  to  Lupipa's  and  tell 
her  that  I  said  to  bring  down  "»if  her  girls  to  the  dance  I'm 
giving  tomorrow.  Go  now,  before  the  sun  gets  any  hotter. 
[To  PIQUILLIN]  Go  and  cut  some  carob  beans  so  old  Zoila 
can  make  aloja; 1  we  want  to  have  it  good  and  strong  for 
tomorrow  v  You  have  time  to  get  back  for  breakfast.  [Exit 
PIQUILLIN  up  stage  to  the  right]  Alt,  old  man,  tell  them  that 
Daniel  has  got  back  from  down  below,  and  that  the  dance 
is  for  him. 

[Exit  TOBIAS,  up  stage  to  the  right. 

DANIEL.  Now's  your  chance,  my  lad,  if  you  want  to  shake 
your  hoofs. 

1  Aloja:    a  refreshing  beverage  made  from  carob  beans. 


ACT  i        THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  87 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Thanks. 

TADEO.  You  certainly  should  want  to;  when  I  was  your 
age  I  could  dance  on  the  end  of  a  finger-nail.  [Moves  i/tip  stage. 

DANIEL.  Where  are  you  going,  Father? 

TADEO.  To  the  corral  to  treat  the  "cattle  for  vermin. 
Coming? 

DANIEL.  Yes. 

[After  glancing  disdainfully  at  INDA  and  JUAN  DE  DIGS, 
he  goes  out,  up  stage,  to  the  rigfit. 

INDA.  Why  do  you  act  like  that,  Juan  de  Dios?  What's 
the  matter  with  you? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  What's  the  matter  with  me?  Hatred, 
Inda.  I  have  a  whole  lot  of  it  stored  up  in  here.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  have  anything  else;  that's  all  that  men 
and  life  have  given  me.  ^  I  have  always  thought  how  much 
better  it  would  be  if  I  had  been  a  bird  or  a  rock;  then  I 
shouldn't  have  had  to  flounder  about  with  this  cargo  of  hatred 
and  pain.  ,<\You  know  they  call  me  Juan  de  Dios.  My 
parents,  if  I  ever  had  any,  knew  what  they  were  doing  when 
they  called  me  that.  Juan  de  Dios,  Juan  of  everybody  and 
nobody  at  the  same  time;  Juan  of  the  wind,  Juan  of  the 
mountain,  Juan  of  the  rivers  and  hills,  even  Juan  of  the 
devil,  to  whom  I  wish  I  might  sell  my  soul  so  as  to  mean 
something  to  some  one,  not  just  nothing  to  nobody.  They 
told  me  to  travel,  and  so  I  go  from  sierra  to  sierra,  from  slope 
to  slope,  from  ranch  to  ranch,  seeking  some  spot  where  I  may 
rest,  tired  already  of  this  endless  wandering,  with  my  guitar 
for  my  only  companion  and  comfort.  And  this  wandering  of 
mine  has  brought  me  to  you,  the  only  good  soul  I've  ever 
seen.  Even  before  I  saw  you  I  knew  you,  and  all  my  songs, 
all  my  sighs,  the  finest  things  I  found  on  my  way — all  were 
for  you.  .For  you  were  the  foam  on  the  swollen  mountain 
streams,  the  blue  daisies,  the  sweetest  notes  of  the  lark, 
the  clearest  waters  of  the  cascades,  the  brightest  stars  in 


88  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN         ACT  i 

the  night  sky.  \  And  then,  Inda,  I  knew  hatred,  more  hatred 
than  ever  before,  because  I  felt  a  better  man.  But  now  I 
am  here,  and  now  I  have  met  you. 

INDA.  No,  Juan  de  Dios;   that  can  never  be — never. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Never?  It  must  be,  Inda;  it  must  be! 
That's  all  I  have  lived  for!  I  wouldn't  know  where  to  go 
alone  after  this.  Don't  you  understand  that  that  life  of 
yours  is  my  very  own?  It  is  my  life  that  I  am  fighting  for, 
Inda. 

INDA.  No,  Juan  de  Dios;  you  know  that  Leon  loves  me, 
and  that  I  am  going  to  marry  him.  .  .  . 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  No,  Inda;  nobody,  nothing  can  take  you 
away  from  me!  I  haven't  much  strength  in  my  arms,  but 
I  have  another  kind  of  strength  that  is  capable  of  doing  more 
than  bodily  strength.  I  hate  much.  ...  I  am  wicked,  Inda. 
...  I  have  the  strength  of  evil  that  also  kills  men  .  .  .  it's 
like  many  knives  put  together  .  .  .  and  they  all  wound  at  the 
same  time.  k.You  think  I'm  weak  because  Daniel,  who  also 
loves  you,  humiliated  me  before  you!  Inda,  Inda,  I'll  arm 
myself  with  a  stronger  arm  than  mine,  stronger  than  Daniel's 
— much  stronger!  You'll  be  mine,  mine!  We'll  defend  our 
love  beneath  some  great  peak,  in  some  rocky  cave — for 
the  sierra  is  not  so  evil  as  men. 

Enter  DANIEL 

DANIEL.  [Taking  him  by  the  shoulder]  Listen,  my  lad! 

INDA.  Daniel! 

DANIEL.  What?  I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  to  him; 
he's  not  man  enough  for  me.  Can't  you  see  my  hands  are 
more  than  enough  for  him?  I  want  to  tell  him  something. 
Come! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  [On  one  side  of  the  stage]  What  is  it? 

DANIEL.  That  woman  Inda  is  forme!  Do  you  hear?  For 
me! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  No,  she's  not  for  you. 


ACT  i        THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  89 

DANTEL.  For  you,  then? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  For  neither  of  us. 

DANIEL.  Who,  then? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  One  who  is  more  of  a  man  than  either  of  us ! 

DANIEL.  [Almost  shouting]  Who?    Who? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Leon! 

DANIEL.  Nobody  is  stronger  than  I  am  except  my  father, 
and  Leon  is  not  my  father.  I'll  take  her  away  from  you  both 
before  your  very  eyes.  What's  the  use  of  beating  around 
the  bush,  eh? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Before  his  very  eyes,  you  say? 

DANIEL.  Yes!  But,  meanwhile,  you  stop  sneaking  around. 
Any  time  you  want  to  fight,  I'm  ready! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  WThy  should  I?  I'm  not  strong;  you're  a 
bigger  man  than  I  am! 

DANIEL.  It's  a  good  thing  you  know  it.      [Exit  to  the  right. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Inda,  I,  too,  am  beginning  to  be  strong. 

INDA.  No — I  don't  love  you,  and  nobody  can  have  me 
against  my  will. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  My  will   is  stronger  than  yours,   Inda. 

[Takes  her  hands. 

INDA.  No!  I  tell  you  I  don't  like  you!  Let  go  of  me! 
Either  you  or  I  will  die  first! 

[Goes  out  rapidly,  up  stage,  to  the  ugkt,  talcing  her  jar 
with  her. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  It's  the  only  thing,  Inda;    it's  the  only 
thing!    Death  can  do  more  than  men!    But  first. . . .  first! . . . 
After  a  pause  enter  ZOILA 

ZOILA.  What  makes  you  so  sad,  my  lad? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I'm  sick. 

ZOILA.  And  you  so  young? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Old  people  don't  suffer  from  my  malady. 

ZOILA.  Then  some  girl  has  bewitched  you. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  It's  called  love. 


90  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN         ACT  i 

ZOILA.  I  know  that  sickness  well. 

JUAN  DB  DIGS.  Do  you  know  the^cure  for  it? 

ZOILA.  I've  known  it  for  years.  ^^ 

^r 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Have  you  helped  many? 

ZOILA.  Everybody. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Is  it  the  devil's  cure? 

ZOILA.  Why  ask,  if  it  cures  you? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  That's  true.  x, 

ZOILA.  Who  made  you  sick? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  A  woman. 

ZOILA.  I  understand  that,  but  where  does  she  live? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Right  here. 

ZOILA.  Inda? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes. 

ZOILA.  Then,  the  cure  will  have  to  be  double  strength. 
There  are  many  down  with  that  same  sickness.  » 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  When  will  you  give  it  to  me? 

ZOILA.  Are  you  in  a  hurry? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Very  much  so. 

ZOILA.  Tonight  at  midnight. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Can't  you  make  it  sooner? 

ZOILA.  I  cannot. 

~JJuAN  DE  Dios.  Very  good,  then.    Where  shall  I  wait  for 
you? 

ZOILA.  By  the  Devil's  Cross. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  The  Devil's  Cross! 

ZOILA.  Are  you  afraid? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I'm  not  over-confident;  .but  if  it  will  cure 
me,  I'll  wait  for  you  there. 

ZOILA.  I'll  be  there. 

•^^. 

[Cuts  off  a  piece  of  meat  and  goes  into  the  cook-house. 

Enter  LEON  looking  anxiously  for  some  one 
JUAN  DE  Dios.  Ah!    Leon! 
LEON.  Good-morning.     Are  you  still  here? 


ACT  i        THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  91 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  So  it  would  seem.  Who  are  you  looking 
for? 

LEON.  Where  is  Inda?  [Meaningly]  You  haven't  seen  her, 
have  you? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  She  went  out  with  a  jar,  probably  to  the 
waterfall  to  get  some  water. 

LEON.  Zoila! 

ZOILA.  Are  you  back? 

LEON.  Can't  you  see  I  am?  If  you  have  any  stew  left, 
give  some  to  the  dog;  he  hasn't  had  a  mouthful  of  food  since 
yesterday. 

[ZoiLA  goes  into  the  cook-house  and  returns  with  a  small 
iron  pot.     She  goes  out,  up  stage,  to  the  right. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  You  seem  disgusted  to  find  me  here. 

LEON.  I'm  not  pleased. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I  am  to  see  you,  though. 

LEON.  Pleased  to  see  me? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes. 

LEON.  I  don't  understand. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  You  seem  to  distrust  me. 

LEON.  Perhaps. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  There's  no  reason  for  it. 

LEON.  No  reason  for  it? 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  I'm  not  speaking  of  formerly. 

LEON.  But  now? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Now  there  is  no  reason. 

LEON.  [Looks  at  him  as  though  seeking  tJie  truth  in  his  eyes] 
No?  So  you  no  longer  care  for  Inda? 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  I  no  longer  care  for  her. 

LEON.  [Gladly]  Are  you  telling  the  truth? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Positively.     I  am  your  friend. 

[Holds  out  his  hand 

LEON.  My  friend? 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Don't  you  believe  me? 


92  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN         ACT  i 

LEON.  You  see,  I've  never  had  any  friend  but  my  dog. 
You  are  the  only  one! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I'll  prove  myself  one. 

LEON.  Good!    If  that  is  the  case,  I'm  glad. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  So  am  I.  [4  short  pause] 

LEON.  What  does  Inda  say?    Did  she  think  of  me? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  No. 

LEON.  [Hurt]  She  didn't? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  At  least,  I  don't  know. 

LEON.  She  didn't  think  of  me !  [A  short  pause]  Is  there  any 
news? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Nothing,  except .  .  . 

LEON.  What? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Daniel  is  back. 

LEON.  Daniel!    Did  he  get  back? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  The  day  after  you  left.  .  .  .  Don  Tadeo  is 
giving  a  dance  tomorrow  in  honor  of  his  return.  [Pause] 
Aren't  you  pleased  at  the  news?  [Pause]  I  don't  blame  you 
for  not  being  pleased. 

LEON.  Why? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  It's  plain  enough. 

LEON.  No;  you  know  more  and  you  won't  tell  me. l  Why 
do  you  say  you  are  my  friend,  then? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I  don't  want  to  worry  you. 

LEON.  The  thorn  has  already  penetrated.  Why  do  you 
hold  back  now?  Daniel  also  loves  her  ...  is  that  it?  Answer 
me! 

•••*  —v  y>  4ff><**'      ^ 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes,  that's  it..,_HS»  *nafv*  kef.  Why 
deny  it? 

LEON.  And  what  docs  Inda  say?    What  does  she  say? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I  don't  know  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  . 

LEOX.  Now  I  understand  why  she  didn't  think  of  me! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Tadeo  seems  to  like  it.  And  he's  your 
father,  too. 


93 

LEON.  My  father! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Daniel  is  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her. 

LEON.  But  he  knows  that  Inda  is  mine!  Why  does  he 
want  to  take  away  what  is  mine  . . .  the  only  thing  I  have  . . . 
the  only  thing  I  love?  Hasn't  he  always  been  master  here? 
Hasn't  he  always  had  everything  he  wanted?  But  not 
Inda —  No,  no! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  He  says  he  is  going  to  take  her  away  from 
you. 

LEON.  From  me?    Juan  de  Dios! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  And  that  he  is  more  of  a  man  than  you 
are. 

LEON.  Juan  de  Dios!    No! .  . .  No! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  And  that  that  is  why  he  carries  a  knife 
that  will  cut  stone  . .  . 

LEON.  No! . . .  He's  my  brother  . . .  even  if  he  hates  me .  . . 
he's  my  brother  .  .  . 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  And  that  he's  going  to  take  her  away 
before  you  and  everybody  else. 

LEON.  Before  me?  Where  I  can  see?  Does  he  think  I'll 
let  him?  No!  The  hills  would  fall  first,  and  the  earth  open. 
Blood  would  flow  from  the  rocks!  And  who  are  you?  Why 
do  you  tell  me  such  things?  Why  do  you  talk  like  this  to  me? 
Don't  you  understand  that  he's  my  brother?  Don't  you 
see  that  I  cannot  kill  him?  Who  are  you  to  stir  up  my 
blood  and  instigate  me  to  murder?  Who  are  you? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Haven't  I  told  you  that  I  am  your  friend? 

LEON.  Friend!  Then  it  isn't  so  pleasant,  after  all,  to  have 
a  friend.  He  makes  you  feel  so  bitterly !  Well,  at  all  events, 
I  thank  you  for  your  kindness. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Don't  mention  it. 

[He  goes  out  slowly,  enjoying  the  effect  of  his  remarks. 
Enter  INDA  from  the  left,  with  the  jar  on  her  head. 
LEON  has  seated  himself  upon  a  rock  with  his  bach 


94  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN         ACT  i 

to  INDA.    ZOILA  passes  from  up  stage  into  the  cook- 
house. 
IN  DA.  [Very  glad  to  see  LEON]  Leon!  ,  Are  you  back?    I've 

*"*^<5^    r\ 

been  expecting  you  since  yesterday. 

LEON.  Me? 

INDA.  Yes,  you,  Leon. 

LEON.  What  for? 

INDA.  Leon,  are  you  ill?    What's  the  matter? 

LEON.  Nothing. 

INDA.  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?  Why  are  you  silent? 
What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

LEON.  I'd  have  been  happier  if  I  hadn't  come  back;  if  I 
were  still  far  away  from  here. 

INDA.  But  why  don't  you  look  at  me? 

LEON.  Why  should  I? 

INDA.  Don't  you  love  me  any  more? 

LEON.  Ask  yourself  the  same  thing. 

INDA.  Why?  I  love  you  and  always  have  loved  you.  .  .  . 
Why  should  I  ask  myself  that,  if  even  when  I'm  asleep  I 
keep  saying,  "I  love  you,  I  love  you"? 

LEON.  Is  it  true,  Inda,  that  you  love  me,  that  you  will 
go  on  loving  me,  that  you  thought  of  me,  and  that  all  these 
days  that  I  have  been  away  you  haven't  looked  at  any  one 
else,  that  you  are  mine,  mine  alone?  Is  it  true  that  you 
won't  leave  me  to  go  off  with  another?  Is  it  true,  Inda? 
Speak  .  .  .  don't  worry  me  any  more  .  .  .  speak  .  .  . 

INDA.  My  poor  Leon — you  ask  me  if  I  really  love  you. 
Why,  you  mean  everything  to  me.  There's  nobody  in  the 
whole  world  better  than  you  are.  You've  got  a  bigger  heart 
than  any  other  man  I  know,  and  a  stronger  arm  to  protect 
me.  That's  why  you  are  called  Leon:  you're  good,  and  you're 
strong !  That's  why  I  love  you ! 

LEON.  Inda,  Inda!  [Frantically  kisses  her  liair,  her  sleeves, 
her  apron.  Tears  cotnc  into  his  eyes,  which  he  wipes  atcay  with 


ACT  i        THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  95 

the  back  of  his  hand.  He  speaks  in  a  torrent  of  words]  Mine, 
mine  alone!  Look,  Inda,  look  at  all  I  brought  you  to  show 
you  that  I  thought  of  you.  [Taking  them  out  of  his  saddle-bags 
and  throwing  them  into  her  lap]  Honey  and  daisies.  Here  is  a 
bit  of  chinchilla  fur.  See  this  blood-colored  flower.  I  nearly 
fell  off  the  cliff  when  I  picked  it.  Here  is  an  air  flower. 
This  is  sugar-cane,  and  . . .  and  that's  all  there  is  ...  because 
there  wasn't  anything  else  on  the  sierra.  If  there  had  been, 
I'd  have  brought  it  to  you. 

[INDA  Jills  out  the  dialogue  with  appropriate  remarks. 
Enter  DON  TADEO,  vp  stage  ~D 

LEON.  [With  instinctive  fear]  Father! 

TADEO.  So  you're  back ! 

LEON.  Yes. 

TADEO.  How  many  cows  did  you  round  up? 

LEON.  Nearly  all  of  them. 

TADEO.  Which  ones  are  missing? 

LEON.  Barrosa  and  Brava. 

TADEO.  Where  are  they? 

LEON.  I  ran  them  as  far  as  Piedra  Herrada.  They've 
hidden  in  the  hills  and  hardly  ever  come  down  to  the 
Chilcas  water-hole;  and  because  the  hill  was  very  rough, 
I  left  them. 

TADEO.  That's  no  excuse  for  your  taking  so  long.  You 
need  breaking  in.  [Pause]  Did  you  know  that  Daniel  was 
back? 

LEON.  Yes. 

TADEO.  Did  you  know  that  he  is  going  to  be  in  charge 
from  now  on?  [A  short  pause]  Did  you  know,  I  say? 

LEON.  I  just  this  minute  came  .  .  . 

TADEO.  Very  well — you  know  now.  [Starts  to  go. 

LEON.  Father! 

TADEO.  What?  [Looks  at  him  domineeringly. 

LEON.  Nothing!  [Strikes  his  hat  with  his  hand. 


96  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN        ACT  i 

TADEO.  The  better  for  you!  Inda,  tell  Zoila  it's  time  for 
breakfast.  I  don't  feel  like  any  myself. 

[Goes  out  at  right.    INDA  does  as  she  was  told.    Enter 
PIQUILLIN  with  the  carob  beans,  which  he  takes  into 
the  cook-house.     INDA  appears  with  dishes,  spoon, 
and  bread.    LEON  sits  upon  a  rock  at  left. 
INDA.  [Pointing  to  the  table]  This  place  is  for  you. 
LEON.  No,  Inda,  not  there;   I  couldn't  swallow  my  food. 
I'll  eat  here  on  this  rock. 

[ZoiLA  serves  the  stew  from  the  pot.    INDA  crosses  to  the 

right. 
INDA.  Daniel,  the  stew  is  on  the  table. 

[PIQUILLIN  scats  himself  on  another  rock. 
LEON.  [To  INDA]  Where  are  you  going  to  eat? 
INDA.  I  don't  feel  like  eating,  Leon. 

Enter  JUAN  DE  Dios,  who  sits  near  LEON.     Enter  DANIEL 
DANIEL.  [Catching  sight  of  LEON]  Ah  !  So  you're  back  ! 
LEON.  [Drops  his  spoon]  It's  you! 

DANIEL.  Well,  won't  you  sit  down  with  me?    [Pointing  to 
a  place  at  the  table.] 
LEON.  I  can  eat  here  just  as  well. 

DANIEL.  [Sitting  down]  Very  well.  [Meaningly]  Did  Father 
tell  you  that  I  have  the  say  here,  and  that  I'm  in  charge  of 
everything? 

LEON.  Of  everything? 

DANIEL.  Of  everything!    Now  you  know!    Inda,  bring  a 
little  wine  to  celebrate  the  news.  [!NDA  goes  out]  And  you,  my 
friend  [to  JUAN  DE  Dios]  are  eating  quietly  so  as  not  to  lose 
time,  eh? 
JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes. 

Enter 


DANIEL.  Serve  it.    Take  this  glass  to  Leon,  and  the  other 
to  that  lad.  [She  docs  so.    JUAN  DE  Dios  drinks. 

LEON.  I  don't  care  for  anv. 


ACT  i        THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  97 

DANIEL.  [With  a  sneer]  Are  you  going  to  scorn  such  pretty 
hands?  [LEON  looks  at  INDA  and  drinks  his  wine  at  a  gulp. 
DANIEL  laughs.     To  INDA]  Aren't  you  going  to  eat? 
INDA.  I  don't  feel  like  it. 
DANIEL.  Sit  down  here,  then. 
INDA.  What  for,  if  I  don't  wish  to  eat? 
DANIEL.  Sit  down  here! 

[LEON  throws  his  spoon  down  in  a  rage.  Then  he  re- 
covers himself. 

DANIEL.  [To  LEON,  irritatingly]  What's  the  matter  with 
you?  [S'its  down  again  and  pours  INDA  a  glass  of  wine]  Inda, 
you're  going  to  drink  this  little  bit  of  wine  to  my  health. 
INDA.  I  told  you  I  didn't  want  anything. 
DANIEL.  Just  a  little  swallow  and  that's  all. 
INDIA.  I  can't!    I  don't  want  to! 
DANIEL.  I  tell  you  to  take  it! 

[!NDA  hesitates,  looks  about  her  nervously  and  starts 
to  lift  the  glass  to  her  lips.  There  is  a  silence  of  deep 
expectation.  Then  LEON  jumps  to  his  feet  with  a 
roar,  takes  the  glass  from  her  hand,  and  dashes  it  to 
pieces  on  the  ground. 

LEON.  No!    I'll  not  have  it!    I'll  not  have  it! 
DANIEL.  Ha! ...  Ha! ...  Ha! 
LEON.  Inda  is  mine! 

DANIEL.  She  belongs  to  whoever  is  the  strongest!    To  the 
best  man!  [Draius  his  knife.] 

LEON.  She's  mine,  mine,  mine!    No  one  can  take  her  away 
from  me! 
DANIEL.  I  can! 
LEON.  No  one! 
DANIEL.  [Brandishing  his  knife]  Ha! ...  Ha! 

[LEON,  beside  himself,  leaps  upon  DANIEL,  takes  his 

knife  away,  breaks  it.  and  throws  away  the  pieces. 
LEON.  Now! 


98  THE   WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN        ACT  i 

[Attacks  DANIEL  with  his  fists.    DANIEL  retreats,  very 
nearly  beaten,  and  terrified  at  LEON'S  strength. 
DON  TADEO  sees  what  is  going  on,  and  rushes  at 
LEON  with  a  savage  shout. 
TADEO.  Leon!    Curse  you! 

LEON.  He  wanted  to  take  her  away  from  me,  Father! 
TADEO.  Nothing  belongs  to  you  here! 
LEON.  Inda  is  mine,  Father,  she's  mine! 
TADEO.  I  told  you  that  you  own  nothing  here! 
LEON.  [Threatening  him  with  his  fists]  Father! 
TADEO.   [Subduing  him  with  a  gesture,  a  word,   a   look] 
Nothing ! 

[LEON  lowers  his  arms,  and  then,  by  the  sheer  force  of 
his  clenched  fists,  he  makes  the  table  creak  and  finally 
break  and  fall,  carrying  everything  with  it  to  the 
ground.  Then,  enraged  at  his  very  helplessness,  he 
throws  himself  upon  the  rock  and  sobs  aloud.  DON 
TADEO  laugfis  with  his  cold,  vague  laugh.  JUAN  DE 
Dios,  at  one  side  of  tJie  stage,  smiles  craftily. 

Curtain 


ACT  TWO 

Same  as  Act  One.  It  is  afternoon.  ZOILA  is  on  the  left, 
grinding  corn  in  a  mortar.  TOBIAS  is  on  the  right,  cutting 
up  a  sheep.  JUAN  DE  Dios  stands  near  ZOILA.  ' 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  You'll  have  to  give  me  another  cure.  The 
one  you  gave  me  was  no  good. 

ZOILA.  It  wasn't? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  No. 

ZOILA.  When  did  you  give  it  to  her? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  This  morning. 

ZOILA.  In  her  mate"? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes. 

ZOILA.  And  Inda  .  .  .? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Doesn't  love  me — or,  rather,  she  hates  me. 
j.  It  looks  as  if  your  cure  worked  the  wrong  way. 

ZOILA.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry  .  » .  I've  got  a  better  one. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  What  is  it? 

ZOILA.  Do  you  know  Senor  Camposanto? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  That  old  man  who  carries  dead  persons  to 
the  cemetery  down  below? 

ZOILA.  The  same. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I  haven't  seen  him  since  last  year. 

ZOILA.  Well,  you  must  look  for  him. 

JUAN  I»E  Dios.  Where  is  he? 

ZOILA.  I  don't  know;  it's  a  long  tinv*  since  he  came  by 
here  .  .  .  not  since  Calixto  died.  He'd  rather  go  around 
by  the  rough  hill  road.  He  says  it's  better  for  the  corpses. 
If  you  find  him,  tell  him  to  bring  me  the  usual  thing  from 
down  below. 

09 


100          THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN       ACT  n 

/  ~i   ' 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  What  is  that? 
ZOILA.  He  knows! 
JUAN  DE  DIGS.  It  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  dead  people, 

»      ^£   f  **•  *  *  *•  • 

has  it?  [The  old  witch  laugJis. 

ZOILA.  Dead  people!  It's  the  only  thing  they're  good  for: 
to  cure  the  living. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  No,  Zoila;  not  that! 
1  'ZOILA.  No? 
rt^c'.  JUAN  DE  Dios.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  it  came  from  the  devil. 

ZOILA.  So  I  thought!  [Laughs.] 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Don't  laugh,  Zoila.  There  are  some 
things  that  no  one  should  laugh  at. 

[He  goes  out  slowly,  glancing  about  him  as  if  looking  for 
some  one.  The  witch  laughs  meaningly  as  she  pours 
the  corn  into  the  sack. 

ZOILA.  Where  is  Don  Tadeo? 

TOBIAS.  He's  taking  his  siesta. 

ZOILA.  Of  course,  seeing  that  he  can't  sleep  nights! 

TOBIAS.  What  do  you  know  about  it? 

ZOILA.  A  great  deal!  Don  Tadeo  can't  sleep  nights  any 
more.  All  he  does  is  to  roll  from  one  side  of  his  cot  to  the 
other  and  talk  to  himself,  moving  his  arms  as  if  he  were 
fighting  somebody  you  couldn't  see. 

TOUTAK.  Wluit  does  he  say? 

ZOILA.  Bali!  What  you  know  .  .  .  always  the  same  thing 
...  as  if  he  were  trying  not  to  forget  it.  [A  short  pausc\  It 
seems  to  me,  Tobias,  that  this  place  will  turn  into  a 
regular  witches'  cave  where  all  the  devils  in  the  country 
will  come  to  live. 

TOBIAS.  All  the  better  for  you;  you'll  be  in  good  company 
then. 

ZOILA.  It  will  be  the  better  for  all  of  us,  and  you,  too. 
These  rocks  are  accursed.  I  tell  you  the  things  you  see  here 
at  night  are  enough  to  scare  you  to  death! 


ACT  ii       THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  101 

/a^vMVjj* 

TOBIAS.  If  you  weren't  an  old  owl  you  wouldn't  see 
anything  .  .  . 

ZOILA.  Owl  or  not,  I'm  the  only  one  around  here  who 

laughs,  and  the  more  the  others  cry,  the  more  I  laugh. 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  [Goes  into  the  cook-house. 

TOBIAS.  Devil!  .  .  .  Witch!  .  .  .  You'll  end  by  damning  all 
our  souls!  [Enter  LeoN/rom  the  dormitory.  He  is  morose  and 
gloomy]  Where  did  you  come  from?  Have  you  been  taking 
your  siesta? 

LEON.  I  lay  down  awhile  to  see  if  I  could  sleep  a  bit,  but 
I  couldn't.  A  I've  been  like  this  ever  since  midnight. 

TOBIAS.  Have  you  seen  something,  too? 

LEON.  What? 

TOBIAS.  I  don't  know;  some  of  old  Zoila's  witchcraft. 

LEON.  No,  old  man;    what  I  saw  wasn't  witchcraft. 

TOBIAS.  What  did  you  see?  [A  short  pause]  Why  are  you 
silent? 

LEON.  I  woke  up  very  early  this  morning  ...  it  was  stil! 
dark.  I  had  my  saddle  out  under  the  carob  tree.  The 
night  was  very  clear,  and  I  was  looking  up  at  Alto  Grande. 
Pretty  soon  a  cloud  began  to  cover  the  mountain,  but  only 
on  one  side.  It  went  on  gathering  and  gathering,  until 
suddenly  I  saw  that  it  had  taken  the  shape  of  a  woman,  very 
tall  and  dressed  in  white.  It  seemed  to  be  standing  right 
there.  It  wore  a  cloak  that  reached  to  the  ground.  Then 
I  got  up  and  went  up  there;  but  as  soon  as  I  came  close,  the 
phantom  began  to  melt  away  until  I  couldn't  see  it  any  more. 
Then  the  cloud  spread  over  the  whole  mountain  until  it 
completely  covered  it. 

TOBIAS.  [After  a  pause]  Well,  that  woman  .  .  .? 

LEON.  Was  my  mother,  old  man;  my  mother! 

TOBIAS.  But  you  never  knew  her,  hardly  ever  saw  her.  .  .  . 
Who  told  you  .  .  .  ? 


102  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN       ACT  n 

fa     (flll\    {l(.\J-&-Lj 

LEON.  No  one;  but  it  was  my  mother./  Every  time  I 
have  thought  of  her  I  have  seen  her  like  that.  [A  short  pause. 

TOBIAS.  Have  you  been  thinking  about  all  this  lately? 

LEON.  Yes.  ,  Tell  me,  old  man — why  do  souls  appear  like 
that? 

TOBIAS.  Why? .  They  say  they  appear  like  that  when  the 
body  was  not  buried  in  consecrated  ground  or  when  they 
i  '     were  killed  in  an  evil  manner.  .  .  .  They  come  back  to  ask  for 
revenge. 

LEON.  Could  that  be  why  my  mother  appeared  to  me? 

TOBIAS.  What's  that  you  said? 

LEON.  Once  I  heard  that  my  father  made  her  suffer 
cruelly;  that  he  watched  her  with  everybody  who  passed  this 
way;  that  he  even  rolled  some  big  rocks  intp  the  okl  path 
so  no  one  could  come  near  the  ranch.  [Pause]  If  it  were  true! 
Whenever  I  ask  about  it,  nobody  cares  to  answer  me.  f  »  .  ' 
Just  as  you,  old  man,  are  silent  now. 

TOBIAS.  What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you?  I  don't  know 
a  thing. ...  I  haven't  heard  a  thing.  ...  I  haven't  seen  a  tning ! 

LEON.  If  it  were  true!  [In  a  low  voice]  Listen,  old  man; 
sometimes  when  I  have  been  thinking  hard  about  all  the 
wicked  things  my  father  has  done  I  suddenly  see  him  at  the 
foot  of  a  cliff,  dead,  his  face  covered  with  blood,  and  with 
condors  and  crows  pecking  at  his  eyes  and  entrails.  Then, 
old  man,  I  am  glad,  glad  to  see  him  like  that,  where  he  can 
do  no  more  harm  or  bring  sorrow  to  any  one. 

TOBIAS.  He's  your  father,  Leon. 

LEON.  My  father!  I  wish  he  weren't!  Why  is  he  my 
father?  .  .  .  Last  night  I  went  to  bed  firmly  resolved  to  take 
Inda  away  with  me  today  Deep  dowii  in  the  big  canyon 
I  have  a  sort  of  stone  hut  built  in  among  the  rocks.  Why 
stay  here?  Everybody  wants  to  take  her  away  from  me: 
even  Father  wants  her  to  marry  Daniel. 

TOBIAS.  Not  that!     Inda  marrv  Daniel?    Not  even  if  Don 


ACT  ii       THE   WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  ,— .     103 

i  .  ^  i 

^4r\*  Itf  ' 

Tadeo  wishes  it.  ...  Not  even  if  he  commands  it!  No!  It 
sha'n't  be!  I'll  tell  him  so  myself  .  .  .  today! 

LEON.  That's  why  I  wanted  to  go  away — so  I  wouldn't 
fight  somebody;  but  now  that  I  have  seen  my  mother,  I'm 
going  to  stay.  I  want  to  find  out  why  she  appeared  to  me. 
And  never  you  fear,  nobody  will  take  Inda  away  from  me — 
not  even  my  father!  Don't  worry,  old  man;  that's  what  I 
am  here  for !  [Goes  slowly  up  stage. 

Enter  DON  TADEO  ]  )  (^ 

TADEO.  Haven't  you  finished  cutting  up  that  sheep  yet? 

TOBIAS.  No. 

TADEO.  Hurry  up  with  it;  the  guests  will  be  coming  before 
long.  Roast  it  yourself  under  the  carob  tree.  They'll  be 
hungry.  We'll  have  the  dance  afterward.  [To  LEON]  Where 
are  you  going?  Bring  a  load  of  wood  to  roast  the  sheep  with. 
Bring  big  wood.  [LEON  goes  out,  up  stage,  to  the  right]  What  was 
he  saying  to  you? 

TOBIAS.  To  me? 

TADEO.  Yes,  to  you. 

TOBIAS.  He  was  telling  me  that  he  saw  his  mother  early 
this  morning. 

TADEO.  His  mother! 

TOBIAS.  Yes. 

TADEO.  [After  a  pause]  He  saw  her  himself? 

TOBIAS.  Yes.     [Pause] 

TADEO.  Good !     [Starts  to  go] 

TOBIAS.  Don  Tadeo! 

TADEO.  WThat  is  it? 

TOBIAS.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

TADEO.  Talk  away.    What  do  you  want? 

TOBIAS.  To  tell  you  that  Leon  and  Inda  love  each  other 
and  that  I  have  arranged  for  them  to  be  married  as  soon 
as  possible. 

TADEO.  Aha!    You  have  arranged  it? 


104 

TOBIAS.  Yes;  I  wanted  to  notify  you. 

TADEO.  And  what  for? 

TOBIAS.  So  you  would  know  it.  You  seem  to  have  thought 
of  something  else.  .  .  . 

TADEO.  What  have  I  thought  of? 

TOBIAS.  That  Inda  was  to  marry  Daniel. 

TADEO.  Very  well.     What  is  there  wrong  with  that? 

TOBIAS.  I  tell  you  I'm  her  father  and  I've  already  ar- 
ranged it  with  Leon ! 

TADEO.  You've  been  in  a  great  hurry,  old  man.  Things 
done  in  a  hurry  never  turn  out  well. 

TOBIAS.  What  are  you  trying  to  tell  me? 

TADEO.  Can't  you  understand  that  Daniel  is  going  to  be 
patron  now? 

TOBIAS.  Very  good;  let  him! 

TADEO.  And  that  Inda  will  gain  by  the  change? 

TOBIAS.  No,  Don  Tadeo.  I  have  always  done  everything 
you  wanted  me  to.  ...  Not  this,  Don  Tadeo!  Not  with  my 
daughter!  [DoN  TADEO  laughs]  I've  suffered  a  great  deal. 
I  don't  want  my  daughter  to  be  unhappy. 

TADEO.  [Harshly]  What  did  you  say? 

TOBIAS.  Not  that,  Don  Tadeo  .  .  .  anything  you  like  except 
that.  Inda  doesn't  love  Daniel. 

TADEO.  Doesn't  she? 

TOBIAS.  No. 

TADEO.  Very  well,  then,  if  she  doesn't  love  him — 

TOBIAS.  What  then?  .  .  . 

TADEO.  We'll  wait  until  she  does. 

TOBIAS.  She'll  never  love  him.     Never! 

TADEO.  All  the  worse  for  you,  then — and  for  Inda! 

TOBIAS.  Don  Tadeo,  I  don't  understand  your  intentions 
toward  Inda  very  well,  but  I  tell  you  that  I  have  plenty  of 
courage  to  protect  her,  and  if  I  am  thrown  over  the  cliff 
like  that  muleteer,  Leon  will  revenge  me. 


ACT  ii       THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  105 

«v>lt/?  fWA^- ' 
TADEO.  Revenge  you !    Ha !    [LaugJis.] 

TOBIAS.  Zoila  is  right.  We  have  a  great  deal  of  bad  luck 
coining  to  us  yet.  Everything  that  happens  here  seems  to 
come  from  the  devil. 

TADEO.  When  the  devil  sticks  his  tail  into  things  he  always 
has  some  reason  for  it.  All  right,  when  you  get  through 
with  your  carving,  start  the  fire.  Leon  has  already  gone 
for  the  wood.  And  let  the  devil  alone,  Tobias,  for  he's  not 
such  a  bad  chap  to  those  who  understand  him  well. 

[Laughs  and  goes  out  at  tlio  right. 

TOBIAS.  Tiger! . . .  Wretch!    Curse  you! . . .  Curse  you! 
Enter  INDA  with  corn-husk  cigarettes 

INDA.  Where  is  Leon?    Have  you  seen  him? 

TOBIAS.  He  went  for  some  wood.  «  What  did  you  want? 

INDA.  Nothing.  [A  short  pause]  Where  is  Daniel? 

TOBIAS.  He's  probably  inside. 

INDA.  Where  are  you  going? 

TOBIAS.  To  look  for  a  spit. 

INDA.  Here.  [Hands  him  some  cigarettes. 

TOBIAS.  Thanks,  my  child. 

[Lights  one  with  his  tinder  and  goes  off  up  stage  to  the  left. 

INDA.  [Glancing  about  her  and  approaching  the  door  on  tfie 
right]  Daniel,  here  are  the  cigarettes. 

DANIEL.  [Off  stage]  Come  in! 

INDA.      I  don't  wish  to.      I'll  leave  them  on  the  table. 

[Runs  to  the  left  of  the  stage. 

DANIEL.  [Entering]  You're  afraid  of  me  and  you  love  me 
at  the  same  time. 

INDA.  I,  love  you? 

DANIEL.  Yes,  me! 

INDA.  If  love  is  ;ir   thing  like  hate,  it  may  be  so. 

DANIEL.  Last  ,ight  when  you  thought  I  was  asleep  you 
came  into  my  room  and  watched  me  for  a  while. 

INDA.  I?    You  lie!    You  lie! 


106  THE   WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN       ACT  n 

DANIEL.  This  morning  when  I  was  saddling  up  you  came 
over  and  hid  behind  the  carob  tree. 

INDA.  You  lie!  I  didn't  come  for  you.  I  was  looking  for 
something  and  I  hid  to  keep  you  from  looking  at  me  with 
those  terrible  eyes  of  yours  that  follow  me  everywhere. 
Love  you?  I  hate  you!  I  hate  you! 

DANIEL.  When  I  came  back  this  morning  you  were  stand- 
ing over  there  looking  in  the  direction  I  had  gone,  and  when 
you  saw  me  coming  you  ran  hi  to  the  house. /ylf  that  is  the 
way  you  hate  me,  hate  me  forever,  my  dear. 

[He  has  been  moving  toward  her.     Now  he  takes  her  hand. 
INDA  resists  less  and  less. 

INDA.  Let  me  go!  Don't  touch  me!  Your  touch  burns 
me;  your  hands  are  afire! 

DANIEL.  [Overpowering  her]  Can't  you  see  that  you  love 
me!  That  you  are  mine,  mine? 

INDA.  [Weakly]  No!    You  lie!    Let  me  go.  ...  Let  me  go! 

DANIEL.  You're  afraid  of  me;   you're  trembling! 

INDA.  [Undergoing  a  reaction,  and  tearing  herself  forcibly 

\      from  his  grasp]  I'll  kill  you!    Let  me  go  ...  jttn**fj»1.     I'll 

see  you  dead  first  .  .  .  torn  to  pieces  and  eaten  by  vultures! 

DANIEL.  I'll  tame  you  till  you  come  and  throw  yourself 
at  my  feet.  You'll  follow  me  like  a  dog,  and  you'll  come 
back  to  me  whining  for  a  caress.  . . . 

INDA.  Never,  never,  never! 

I  DANIEL.  Poor  Inda!  You  don't  know  me!  Poor  Inda! 
[Starts  to  go  out.  In  spite  of  herself,  as  if  dominated  by  a 
superior  icitt,  INDA  takes  tico  or  three  steps  in  his  direction] 
Where  are  you  going?  Why  do  you  follow  me? 

INDA.  [Slopping  in  surprise]  I ... 

DANIEL.  Poor  Inda!  [Goes  out  at  right,  laughing. 

INDA.  [Weeping  disconsolately]  Father!    Father! 

[LEON  enters  from  up  stage,  sees  INDA,  drops  his  wood 
and  runs  to  her  side. 


ACT  ii       THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  107 

LEON.  Inda!    What's  the  matter? 

INDA.  Leon!  Take  me  away  from  here  .  .  .  let's  go  away 
forever.  These  rocks  are  accursed. 

LEON.  But  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  Who  made  you 
cry? 

INDA.  Let's  run  away,  Leon,  before  we  are  any  worse  off. 

LEON.  Run  away?    Very  well,  Inda,  but  not  now. 

INDA.  Yes,  now,  Leon;  this  minute.  Why  do  you  want 
to  stay  here?  },„<.•. 

LEON.  Why?    To  find  out  something,  Inda. 

INDA.  Who  from?  [Fearing  jpc  DANIEL.] 

LEON.  My  father. 

INDA.  Let  your  father  alone,  Leon,  let  him  alone.  Don 
Tadeo  is  very  wicked.  He's  to  blame  more  than  anybody 
else  for  all  these  tilings. 

LEON.  That's  just  why  I  want  to  stay.  That — and  some- 
thing else.  If  it  were  true! 

INDA.  Let's  go  away,  Leon.  .  .  .  He'll  kill  you.  .  .  .  You 
don't  know  him. 

LEON.  He,  kill  me?  [Transition]  No,  Inda,  he  couldn't 
kill  me.  His  eyes  are  what  I'm  afraid  of.  ...  When  he  looks 
at  me  he  paralyzes  and  disarms  me.  But  there  must  be 
some  way  out,  and  then  .  . 

INDA.  Leon,  I'm  afraid!    I'm  afraid! 

LEON.  Of  whom  ? 

INDA.  If  you  love  me  so  much,  take  me  away  from  here 
.  .  .  take  me  away  from  all  these  rocks  .  .  .  don't  leave  me 
here,  Leon.  .  .  . 

LEON.  But  what  is  troubling  you? 

INDA.  Bad  luck!  Bad  luck!  It  isn't  my  fault.  ...  If 
you  have  something  to  do,  come  back  alone  and  do  it;  let 
me  stay  far  away  from  here,  where  I  shall  never  see  these 
cabins,  never  .  .  . 

LEON.  It's  Daniel!    Does  he  still  annoy  you?.    Answer  me! 


108  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN       ACT  n 

INDA.  I  love  you,  Leon  .  . . 
LEON.  Does  he  ?A  Answer  .  .  . 
INDA.  Yes. 

LEON.  [Resolutely]  Very  well;  he  won't  do  it  any  more! 

INDA.  No!    I  lied  ...  it  isn't  so  ...  it  isn't  Daniel  .  .  . 

LEON.  Who?    Who? 

INDA.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know,  Leon.  .  .  .  Have 
pity  on  me ... 

LEON.  Very  well,  Inda,  I'll  take  you  out  of  here  tonight. 
I'll  hide  you  somewhere  on  the  sierra  .  .  .  but  I  shall  come 
back!  I  shall  come  back  .  .  . 

INDA.  Leon!  My  Leon!  You  have  taken  a  great  load  off 
my  heart.  You  have  saved  me,  Leon,  saved  me  . .  .  I'm  not 
afraid  any  more. 

[During  tJte  foregoing,  JUAN  DE  Dios  has  been  lurking 
about  tfie  stage,  listening. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Why  do  you  deceive  him? 

LEON  AND  INDA.    What? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  You  don't  love  Leon. 

LEON.  What  did  you  say? 

INDA.  He  lies!    He  lies! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I  spoke  the  truth.  She  was  here  a  little 
while  ago  with  the  other  ...  in  this  very  spot. 

LEON.  Inda,  is  this  true? 

INDA.  He  lies,  Leon  . . .  don't  pay  any  attention  to  him. 

LEON.  Who  saw  it? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I  did,  myself. 

LEON.  Was  she  with  Daniel? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes. 

INDA.  Don't  believe  him,  Leon. 

LEON.  Were  you  here  with  Daniel?    Answer  me! 

IXDA.  Leon,  I  am  most  unhappy  . . .  take  pity  on  me  ...  it 
isn't  my  fault ...  he  follows  me,  overpowers  me  with  his  will. 
,  .  .  I  want  to  liate  him,  I  do  hate  him,  Leon.  ...  I'd  kill  him 


ACT  n       THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  109 

gladly.  ...  I  don't  know  what  he  does  to  madden  me  the 
way  he  does  .  .  .  that's  why  I  begged  you  to  take  me  away, 
never  to  see  him  again,  to  love  you  and  only  you,  so  he  can't 
cast  the  evil  spell  of  his  love  over  me. 

LEON.  Poor  Inda,  of  course  I  understand  ...  it  isn't  your 
fault,  it's  Father's.  Thanks,  my  friend,  for  the  warning. 
I'll  take  Inda  away  tonight. 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  You're  going  to  take  her  away? 

LEON.  Why  shouldn't  I?     Isn't  she  mine? 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  [After  a  short  pause]  Where  are  you  going 
to  take  her? 

LEON.  To  some  spot  on  the  sierra  where  no  tiger  can 
follow  us. 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Daniel  knows  the  sierra  as  well  as  you  do. 
He'll  look  for  her  until  he  finds  her  even  if  you  conceal  her 
in  the  I x  ,  la  oi  the  mountain. 

LEON.  He'll  have  to  reckon  with  me  first,  and  then  I  shall 
do  what  I  have  never  wished  to  do:  kill.  My  blood  is  even 
now  rising  in  a  mist  before  my  eyes.  They  hound  me  and 
threaten  me  like  a  cur.  Wrhat  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do? 
.  .  .  Kill!  .  .  .  Kill! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Leave  Inda  here  .  .  .  you  can  protect  her 
better. 

INDA.  No,  Leon;  he  doesn't  want  you  to  take  me  away 
because — 

LEON.  Wrhy?    Ah!    Do  you  love  her,  too? 

INDA.  Yes,  Leon;  he,  too. 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Yes,  I  love  her  ...  I  love  her  more  than 
any  of  you! 

LEON.  You?  .  .  .  You? 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.    Yes,  I  ...  I! 

LEON.  Why  did  you  lie  to  me?  Don't  you  know  that  I 
could  kill  you  right  now  ,  .  ,  dash  your  head  to  pieces  against 
that  rock? 


110  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN        ACT  H 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Kill  me!  What  do  I  care?  You  would 
be  doing  me  a  favor;  I  should  suffer  less.  Life  without  her  is 
worse  than  death.  I  have  no  one  to  weep  for  me,  no  one 
to  miss  me.  All  this  love  I  have  here  was  for  her.  If  she 
is  not  to  be  mine,  why  should  I  want  to  live? 

LEON.  [In  admiration]  You  love  her  as  I  do!  [A  short  pause] 
Then  why  did  you  treat  her  and  me  so  badly? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  For  that  very  reason:  because  I  love  her. 
I  cannot  fight  for  her  with  physical  strength  as  you  can;  so 
I  fight  with  evil.  Nobody  matters  to  me  .  .  .  everything 
seems  small  in  comparison  to  her. 

LEON.  And  now,  now  that  you  have  told  the  truth,  will 
you  be  my  friend? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Now,  less  than  ever.  I  can't  be  your 
friend  when  you  love  her,  too,  and  seem  stronger  than  I  am. 

LEON.  What  are  you  going  to  do  then? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Keep  ou  loving  her  as  long  as  there  is  hope 
for  me. 

LEON.  Hope? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Until  either  you  or  Daniel  kill  me. 

LEON.  [After  a  short  pause]  In  that  case,  Inda,  let's  go  away 
as  soon  as  possible  .  .  .  right  now! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Go  away?    No! 

LEON.  Who  is  going  to  stop  me? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Don  Tadeo! 

LEON.  My  father? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes.  [Callin g]  Don  Tadeo!    Don  Tadeo! 
Enter  DON  TADEO 

TADEO.  Who  called  rue? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Leon  is  trying  to  take  Inda  away  with 
him. 

TADEO.  What? 

[JUAN  DE  Dios  goes  out,  up  stage,  to  the  left,  watching 
the  scene  as  he  goes. 


ACT  ii       THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  111 

LEON.  I  want  to  take  Inda  away. 

TADEO.  You  want  to  steal  her  from  us? 

LEON.  I'm  not  stealing  her  .  .  .  she  is  coming  with  me  of 
her  own  free  will. 

TADEO.  We  need  Inda  here. 

LEON.  I  need  her  more. 

TADEO.  See  here;   neither  one  of  you  is  going  to  leave! 

LEON.  She  loves  me,  Father;  she  wants  to  go  away  with  me! 

TADEO.  If  she  loves  you,  she  shall  go  with  you,  but  only 
when  I  say  so,  and  when  I  feel  like  it. 

LEON.  [In  a  high  voice,  dramatically,  almost  shouting]  Father! 
I  don't  want  to  have  to  fight  you! 

TADEO.  Fight  me?  .  .  .  You?  Stand  up  to  me!  [Transition] 
I  don't  want  to  kill  you  now.  I've  got  something  better  in 
store  for  you  .  .  .  [Laughs]  something  to  remember  me  by  ... 
so  you'll  remember  me  always.  [To  INDA]  Go  into  the  house, 
you.  [Pause]  They  tell  me  that  you  have  seen  your  mother. 
Answer  me  .  .  . 

LEON.  Yes. 

TADEO.  When? 

LEON.  Early  this  morning. 

TADEO.  On  Alto  Grande?  [Crescendo.] 

LEON.  Yes. 

TADEO.  Was  she  hovering  over  the  point  of  rock? 

LEON.  Yes. 

TADEO.  Did  she  look  very  tall  and  very  white? 

LEON.  Yes. 

TADEO.  With  a  cloak  that  reached  to  her  feet? 

LEON.  Yes.  [^4  short  pause. 

TADEO.  [Laughing]  I  wonder  why  we  have  both  seen  her  in 
the  same  way? 

LEON.  Perhaps  we  were  both  thinking  hard  about  the  same 
thing.  I,  because  I  am  her  son.  You  .  .  .  you  alone  know 
why  .  .  . 


112  THE  WITCHES*  MOUNTAIN        ACT  n 

TADEO.  [Laughing]  I  know  why.  .  .  .  That's  right!  [Crossing 
to  the  cook-house]  Zoila,  get  the  aloja  ready  and  bring  it  out 
here.  I  know  why ! . . .  That's  good ! 

Enter  TOBIAS  with  a  spit 
TADEO.  Are  you  going  to  roast  it  soon? 
TOBIAS.  Yes. 

TADEO.  Will  there  be  enough  for  everybody? 
TOBIAS.  If  they're  not  too  hungry. 

[Goes  out,  up  stage,  to  the  right. 

TADEO.  I  know  why!    And  so  will  you!  .  .  .  Fight  me! 

That's  good !  [Goes  out,  up  stage,  to  the  left. 

[LEON  fits  upon  a  rock  lost  in  thought,  and  very  downcast. 

Tlie  afternoon  wanes.    Soon  PIQUILLIN'S  flute  w 

heard  approaching.  } 

PIQUILLIN.  [Off  stage]  Head  off  the  goats !  Open  the  corral 
gate! 

[LEON  gets  up,  goes  off,  up  stage,  to  the  left  to  do  as 
/i,  »    indicated.    ZOILA  brings  a  huge  jar  of  aloja  from  the 
cook-house.     She  sets  the  table  with  glasses  and  cups 
of  different  shapes  and  sizes. 

TOBIAS.  [Off  stage]  Here  comes  Lupipa  with  her  daughters! 

ZOILA.  My  old  friend!    Inda,  go  and  meet  them.  [Up  stage] 

Get  right  down,  my  friend.  [Goes  out  at  right. 

Enter  DON  TADEO  and  DANIEL 
DANIEL.  It  looks  as  if  the  guests  were  arriving. 

Enter  ZOILA  with  LUPIPA  and  her  two  daughters 
LUPIPA.  Good  afternoon.  [Words  of  greeting,  etc.] 
TADEO.  How  are  you,  Lupipa?     And  you,  girls? 
LUPIPA.  Not  very  well.  .  .,'  We  left  Policarpo  in  bed  ...  it 
looks  like  the  palsy. 

ZOILA.  I'll  give  you  something  to  cure  it,  my  friend. 
LUPIPA.  Thanks. 

TADEO.  Bring  out  some  seats,  Zoila.     You  help  her,  Inda. 
\Thcy  bring  out  chairs,  horsehide  scats,  sections  of  trees,  etc. 


ACT  ii       THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  113 

TOBIAS.  [Off  stage]  Don  Tadeo,  here  comes  Pastor,  the 
blind  man,  with  the  musicians. 

ALL.  The  musicians!  /  [They  go  up  stage. 

TADEO.  [To  DANIEL]  Help  them  get  their  instruments  down. 
[Exit  DANIEL]  Tell  them  to  dismount  under  the  tree. 

VOICE  OF  THE  BLIND  MAN.  Ave  Maria  Purisima! 

ZOILA.  Conceived  without  sin. 

Enter  JUAN  DE  Dios,  up  stage,  on  the  left 

TADEO.  Come  right  down.  [Enter  the  musicians.     DANIEL 

carries  the  harp]  While  we're  waiting  for  the  sheep  to  roast, 

/• 
Did  you  have 

\inueh  trouble,  carrying  your  instruments H  ^A^...,^^ 
I  RTJPERTO.  So-so;    We  .had  to  carry  the  harp  on  top.    The^ 
passes  are  pretty  narrow;   you  can  hardly  get  through. 

Enter  LEON 

DANIEL.  Here  come  some  more  guests.  [All  look  off  at  right. 
TADEO.  Who  are  they? 
ZOILA.  I  can't  see  them  very  well. 
LUPIPA.  There  are  two  of  them. 
TADEO.  Three;    there  comes  the  other. 
DANIEL.  The  one  in  the  middle  looks  like  Senor  Doroteo. 
TADEO.  Yes,  it  is — it's  my  old  friend.     But,  hasn't  he  been 
sick? 

DANIEL.  Who  is  the  one  ahead? 

TADEO.  I  don't  know  him.  It  might  be  a  good  idea  to 
receive  my  friend  with  music.  If  you're  not  too  tired  you 
might  play  us  a  little  piece.  [Music. 

TOBIAS.  [Off  stage]  Good  afternoon. 
DANIEL.  They're  not  stopping. 

[An  individual  mounted  on  a  mule  crosses  the  stage 
from  right  to  left.     Soon,   when  the  dialogue  in- 
dicates it,  an  old  man  crosses  in  the  same  manner. 
TADEO.  Get  down,  my  friend,  here's  the  dance.  [A  short 
pause]  He  doesn't  answer. 


114  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN        ACT  11 

DANIEL.  JEHWff?    Listen,  my  friend! ... 

TADEO.  Here  comes  my  old  comrade.  Where  are  you 
going,  comrade?  Dimnmial,  theft.  [A  short  pause]  Aren't  you 
coming  to  the  dance?  [A  short  pause]  \)iibonHl«!,  mattci  with 
-5SB^/  Why  don't  you  answer  me? 

DANIEL.  Senor  Camposanto! 

TADEO.  [Removes  his  Jiat.  The  others  follow  his  example. 
At  the  same  moment  tJie  music  stops]  They're  dead! 

CAMPOSANTO.  [Laughing]  Why,  didn't  you  recognize  them? 
The  one  ahead  is  Nabor,  Senor  Deidamia's  son,  who  died  night 
before  last.  The  other  is  Senor  Doroteo.  He  took  two  days 
to  die,  and  I  had  to  wait  for  him  until  this  morning.  I'm 
taking  them  down  below  to  bury  them  in  consecrated  ground 
.  .  .  otherwise  their  souls  would  stay  in  torment. 

TADEO.  My  poor  friend! 

CAMPOSANTO.  Won't  you  ask  me  to  have  a  drink? 

TADEO.  Bring  him  one.  [!NDA  serves  him]  You  never  come 
this  way  any  more,  so  we  didn't  recognize  you. 

CAMPOSANTO.  That's  right.  I'm  not  going  around  by  the 
other  road,  which  is  longer,  today,  because  Senor  Doroteo 
is  already  half  gone.^The  other  is  fresher,  even  if  he  did  die 
two  days  ago.  He  stands  more  because  he's  younger.  We 
old  men  are  good  for  nothing:  we  won't  even  wait  for  them 
to  bury  us.  [Drinks]  That's  very  good  .  /•.  may  God  repay  you. 
Well,  good-by,  and  have  a  good  time. 

ZOILA.  Sefior  Camposanto,  don't  forget  to  bring  me  that! 

CAMPOSANTO.  All  right,  Zoila;  don't  worry.  [Clucking  to 
his  mules]  Get  up,  mules!  [Goes  out,  up  stage,  to  the  left. 

TADEO.  The  old  devil!  Well,  make  yourselves  comfort- 
able, and  begin  the  dance.  Take  your  seats.  Serve  them, 
Zoila;  it  will  put  a  little  heart  in  them.  They're  all  pulling 
long  faces.  Open  up,  now.  [To  JUAN  DE  Dios]  And  you,  my 
lad;  here  you  have  two  pretty  girls — choose  the  one  you  like 
best. 


ACT  ii       THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  115 

DANIEL.  [Who  has  brought  in  a  jar  of  specially  prepared 
aloja.     To  INDA]  Drink ! 

INDA.  Thanks,  but  I  don't  feel  well. 
DANIEL.  Do  you  scorn  me?  Drink!    [!NDA  does  so]  Drink 
it  all!  [INDA  finishes  it] 

LEON.  Do  you  want  to  dance  with  me,  Inda? 
DANIEL.  You're  too  late;  Inda  has  already  promised  me. 
LEON.  You  lie!    Inda  dances  with  nobody  but  me! 
DANIEL.  Who  are  you  to  order  me  about? 
LEON.  I  don't  want  her  to  dance  with  you! 
TADEO.  Inda  dances  with  any  one  she  wants  to.    That's 
what  she's  here  for. 
LEON.  I'll  not  have  it! 
TADEO.  You  won't?    Sit  down,  I  tell  you. 
LEON.  Father! 

TADEO.  Sit  down,  I<M9l'$eu,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  break 
your  head  open  with  a  chair!    Begin  the  dance! 

[The  music  begins.     They  dance.     LEON/O^S  staggering 
into  a  chair.    His  nails  are  pressed  into  his  flesh. 
LEON.  [In  a  low  voice]  I  can  do  nothing !    He  has  mastered 
me! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  [Disdainfully]  Where's  your  spirit?    If  I 
had  your  strength! 

[When  the  dance  ends,  INDA  feels  ill. 
INDA.  I  can't  .  .  .  I'm  used  up.  [To  DANIEL]  What  did  you 
give  me  jt*  drink?  ;  Jfaartfcl 

"  [Goes  into  her  cabin 'at  left.     DANIEL  laughs  meaningly. 

TADEO  watches  them  maliciously. 

TADEO.  Serve  them,  Zoila.     Let's  see  if  we  can't  cheer 
them  up  a  bit.     Givje,.some  to  the  musicians;   their  tongues 
must  be  dry. 
j'  DAN  IKL   Watch  me,  Father! 

[Talcing  advantage  of  the  moment's  confusion,  he  cau- 
tiously enters  INDA'S  cabin  and  closes  the  daor.     DON 


116  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN        ACT  H 

TADEO  laughs  with  a  malice  and  content  that  he 
^   cannot  conceal.  t 

TADEO.  That's  my  "way!    Well   played!    [Aloud]    Well, 
let's  have  the  next  one,  for  there's  no  first  without  a  second. 
Why  don't  you  dance,  Leon?  *> 
ALL.  Yes,  yes — let  Leon  dance  .  .  . 

[LEON  lifts  his  liead,  looks  about  him  for  INDA  and,  wlien 

he  fails  to  see  her,  jumps  to  his  feet  with  a  shout. 
LEON.  Inda!    Inda!     Where  is  In  da? 
TAIJKO.  [Pointing  up  stage]  She  went  down  that  way. 
LEON.  [Frantic,  savage,  he  runs  up  stage  like  a  wounded  lion] 
Inda!    Inda!/jMMVi 

TADEO.  [Dominating  the  scene  and  especially  JUAN  DE  DIGS, 
who  seems  to  fear  him]  On  with  the  dance!  On  with  the  dance! 
[With  a  gesture  of  pride,  lie  laughs  as  if  satisfied.  The  music 
starts]  Jhw^ffte  me!  ;.  Fine -"boy!  M^«a^I— -My-*  wai: ! 

LEON.  [From  the  mountainside,  wildly  shouting]  Inda!  .  .  . 
Inda!  Inda,!  .  .  . 

Curtain 


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%**&  "v 

ACT  THREE 

3TAe  w?^  of  ffo  same  day.  c/ear  and  starlit.  In  the  center,  a 
spit  with  the  remnants  of  the  roast.  About  it  are  seated 
DON  TADEO,  INDA,  and  PIQUILLIN.  ZOILA  is  seated  in 
the  center,  facing  the  public.  She  is  smoking  a  corn-husk 
cigarette.  LEON  is  somewhat  apart  from  the  others.  He  is 
profoundly  dejected. 

ZOILA,  Well,  they  say  that  he  was  so  bad  and  that  every- 
body hated  him  so  that  he  always  went  about  alone,  like  a 
soul  in  torment.  Once  when  he  was  climbing  among  the 
mountain  crags  he  met  a  little  man  in  a  great  big  hat.  As 
it  was  a  very  dark  night,  he  could  not  see  the  little  man's 
face  very  clearly,  but  he  could  see  sparks  coming  out  of  his 
eyes.  It  was  the  devil  himself!  "What's  the  matter  with 
you?"  the  devil  said.  "Why  do  you  always  go  about  so 
sorrowfully  as  if  you  were  running  away  from  people?  What 
is  the  greatest  desire  you  have  in  your  life?  Would  you  like 
to  be  a  tiger  and  slay  cows  and  sheep  and  feed  on  their  en- 
trails, with  no  man  or  beast  able  to  do  you  harm?  What 
would  you  like?"  And  the  bad  man  answered,  "I'd  like  to 
be  strong,  stronger  than  all  men;  to  have  the  power  of  con- 
quering any  woman  by  just  looking  at  her,  and  to  marry  the 
one  I  love  even  if  she  hates  me."  "Very  well,"  said  the 
devil,  "everything  you  see,  be  it  animal,  woman,  or  man, 
shall  do  your  bidding.  If  you  tell  them  to  die,  they  shall  die; 
but  you  must  give  me  your  soul  in  exchange."  "When  must 
I  give  you  my  soul?"  asked  the  bad  man.  "So  long  as  your 
eyes  can  see,  I  shall  let  you  have  your  soul;  but  as  soon  as 

117 


V 
118  THE   WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN      ACT  in 

they  lose  their  sight,  you  will  lose  the  power  I  gave  you 
and  you  must  give  me  your  soul,"  the  devil  replied.  "Very 
well,  I  agree,"  said  the  bad  man.  Then  the  devil  disappeared 
in  a  puff  of  smoke  that  smelt  of  burnt  sulphur.  *  And  thus 
it  was:  The  bad  man  married  a  very  good  woman.  This 
woman  was  the  only  thing  the  man  loved  in  the  world,  but 
he  loved  her  so  much  that  he  was  jealous  of  the  very  air  she 
breathed.  And  because  the  devil  had  given  him  no  power 
over  jealousy,  the  bad  man  lived  in  torment  day  and  night 
until  at  length,  to  put  an  end  to  his  sufferings,  he  decided 
to  kill  her.  "When  my  wife  is  dead,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"I  won't  be  jealous  of  anybody,  and  so  I  won't  suffer  any 
more."  Then  it  was  that  he  made  use  of  the  power  that  the 
devil  had  given  him,  and  the  good  woman  died.  That  night 
the  devil  himself  helped  the  bad  man  to  watch  over  her. 
They  say  that  the  room  where  the  body  lay  was  as  bright 
as  day  from  the  light  that  came  out  of  the  devil's  eyes.  After 
that  night  the  man  never  spoke  to  a  soul;  he  was  always  alone, 
with  the  devil  by  his  side.  They  say  that  alongside  of  the 
bad  man's  footsteps  there  was  always  a  track  like  that  of  a 
wild  pig.  The  man  could  do  nothing  in  this  company. 
Sometimes  he  was  seen  to  fight  some  one  that  only  he  could 
see.  If  he  was  in  his  room  he  would  feel  the  do»r  open  and 
shut  as  if  some  one  had  entered;  if  he  was  sitting  thinking 
hard  an  invisible  being  would  come  and  stand  beside  him. 
Once  we  were  all  seated  in  a  circle,  as  we  are  now,  when 
suddenly  he  felt  a  breath  on  his  back,  and — 

TADEO.  What's  that! 

[They  all  jump  to  their  feet  instantly,  as  if  they  had  heard 
a  noise  behind  them.     A  moment  of  waiting. 

ZOILA.  It's  the  cat  scratching  the  door.     I  left  him  shut 

up  in  the  cook-house.  ^Plague  take  the  cat,  he  didn't  frighten 

•  o  •  •    • 

me!  ^ 

TADEO.  All  right.    How  docs  the  story  end  ? 


ACT  in      THE   WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  119 

ZOILA.  One  night  the  devil  asked  the  bad  man  if  he  was 
happy.  "No,"  he  replied.  "I  want  to  forget,  now."  "There 
is  only  one  way  to  forget,"  said  the  devil,  "and  that  is  to  die. 
Give  me  your  soul  and  then  you'll  forget."  "Very  well," 
answered  the  bad  man.  "All  your  gift  did  for  me  was  to 
make  me  kill  what  I  loved  most.  Why  should  I  want  it 
any  longer?"  They  say  that  that  very  same  night  the  bad 
man  fell  off  a  cliff  while  following  the  phantom  of  a  woman 
in  white  across  the  sierra,  and  that  a  huge  black  condor 
,  came  down  out  of  the  clouds  and  pecked  his  eyes  out.  .  .  . 
And  now,  somebody  else  tell  one!  • 

TADEO.  That  will  do;   that's  enough  of  your  foolishness! 

ZOILA.  You  don't  seem  to  like  my  story? 

TADEO.  You're  always  dabbling  in  witchcraft.  Take  care 
that  the  devil  doesn't  carry  you  off  one  of  these  nights. 

ZOILA.  Maybe.  [Meaningly]  He  comes  around  here  a  good 
deal. 

TADEO.  All  right;  take  that  into  the  cook-house.  [Indicat- 
ing the  spit]  You  old  witch!  [ZoiLA  goes  into  the  cook-house 
with  a  witchlike  smile]  You,  Piquillin,  go  to  bed,  for  you've 
got  to  get  up  early.  Take  care  that  the  goats  don't  get  away 
from  you  as  they  did  last  night..  I'm  going  for  a  stroll  to 
take  a  look  at  the  stone  wall. 

[PIQUILLIN  and  DON  TADEO  go  out,  up  stage,  to  the  left. 

INDA.  [In  a  low  voice  to  DANIEL,  who  starts  to  go  out  at  left] 
Listen^Daniel ! 

DANIEL.  There  he  is.  [Indicating  LEON]  Go  and  tell  him 
all  about  it.  [Goes  out  at  right  with  a  sarcastic  smile. 

INDA.  You  brute!  [Goes  out  at  left. 

LEON.  [After  a  long  pause]  Don't  you  suspect  anything,  old 
man? 

TOBIAS.  No.    What  do  you  mean? 

LEON.  I  don't  know;  I'm  very  unhappy  and  very  angry. 

TOBIAS.  What  do  you  suspect? 


120  THE   WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN      ACT  in 

LEON.  Everything.    Inda,  above  all. 

TOBIAS.  Inda? 

LEON.  Yes.     It  looks  as  if  she  didn't  love  me  any  more. 

TOBIAS.  What  has  she  done  to  make  you  say  that? 

LEON.  I  don't  know.  She  hasn't  been  the  same  since  last 
night.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  her  or  why 
she  has  changed.  But  she  is  like  a  different  person.  .  .  . 
Inda  doesn't  love  me  any  more. 

TOBIAS.  What  did  she  tell  you?  ,x  Haven't  you  asked  her? 

LEON.  Yes;  but  she  didn't  want  to  answer  me.  I  spoke 
to  her  about  our  little  affairs  and  she  began  to  cry.  And 
she  went  off  crying  without  saying  a  word  to  me.  [Short  pause] 
It  seems  to  me  that  my  father  has  something  to  do  with  it 
.  .  .  but  I'm  changed,  too,  now — nobody  will  recognize  me. 
I've  come  to  the  end  of  my  rope;  I've  got  to  kill;  I  want 
blood,  blood  that  will  stain  me  . . . 

TOBIAS.  Leon!    Leon!    My  son!  .  .  . 

LEON.  I'm  not  afraid  of  anybody  now.  My  hands  are 
looking  for  somebody.  .  .  .  [Defiantly]  Where  is  the  man  who 
stole  her  love  from  me?  Where  is  he?  Is  it  Father,  Daniel, 
or  Juan  de  Dios?  Who  is  it?  Let  him  who  can  answer! 

TOBIAS.  Listen,  Leon;  Inda  is  yours;  I  have  sworn  it. 
Let  me  speak  to  her.  She'll  tell  me  what  the  matter  is.  I 
am  sure  that  she  loves  you,  Leon. 

LEON.  [Changed,  with  great  tenderness]  Old  man,  you  are 
good.  Speak  to  her,  tell  her  that  for  her  sake  I'll  be  a  dog, 
that  her  love  is  the  breath  of  life  to  me,  that  I'll  suffer  any- 
thing for  her  sake,  that  I'll  be  good  and  patient  .  .  .  but  tell 
her  to  come  with  me,  to  run  away  with  me  ...  and  not  to 
leave  me  for  some  one  else,  for  in  that  case  .  .  . 

TOBIAS.  All  right,  my  son;  calm  yourself;  leave  it  to  me  . . . 

LEON.  There  she  is,  old  man;  call  her  .  .  .  call  her  .  .  . 

[Goes  out,  up  stage,  at  the  left. 

TOBIAS.  Inda. 


ACT  in      THE  DITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  121 

&+J^  '  t~"     ~r  i  ol^  r  f*** 

INDA.  [Enters]  What  is  it,  Father?   /\  M  < 

TOBIAS.  Inda,  my  child,  what  ails  you?  Why  are  you  like 
this? 

INDA.  Father,  I  am  very  wicked. 

TOBIAS.  Why  do  you  say  that? 

INDA.  Why?  ...  I  hardly  know  myself. 

TOBIAS.  Tell  me,  Inda,  and  think  well  on  what  you  are 
going  to  say.^.  Don't  you  love  Leon  any  more? 

INDA.  No,  Father,  I  do  not. 

TOBIAS.  Inda!    Inda! 

INDA.  I  told  you  I  was  wicked  and  that  there  was  no  hope 
for  me. 

TOBIAS.  Who  has  bewitched  you,  unhappy  girl?  Who  do 
you  love  now? 

INDA.  Another  man;,  he  may  be  very  wicked,  but  I  love 
him.  I  love  him  with  a  love  I  never  knew  before,  with  a 
mixture  of  hatred  and  pain. 

TOBIAS.  Unhappy  girl,  that  man  is  Daniel! 

INDA.  Yes,  Father,  it  is  Daniel!    Curse  him! 

TOBIAS.  [Calling]  Leon!    Leon! 

INDA.  [Restraining  him]  Father!  Don't  call  him.  I  don't 
want  you  to  kill  the  other  .  . . 

TOBIAS.  Let  me  go  ...  let  me  go,  wretched  girl ! 

INDA.  No,  Father,  kill  me  if  you  wish,  but  not  him  .  .  . 

TOBIAS.  You  defend  him? 

INDA.  Forgive  me,  Father;  I  am  lost,  powerless  in  his  love. 
.  .  .  Forgive  me  for  this  sin,  Father  dear.  .  .  . 

TOBIAS.  Unhappy  child!  I  knew  it!  He  has  bewitched 
you! 

INDA.  Ask  anything  you  wish  of  me,  but  don't  tell  Leon. 
I  don't  want  him  to  know  a  thing  about  it.  ...  I'll  do  any- 
thing you  say,  Father. 

TOBIAS.  Listen  to  me,  Inda:  you  are  going  away  with 
Leon  this  very  night. 


122  THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN      ACT  in 

INDA.  With  Leon!    Tonight? 

TOBIAS.  Yes,  tonight. . . .  He'll  find  some  place  to  hide  you; 
tomorrow  you'll  go  down  below,  and  we'll  find  some  place  to 
live.  Once  far  away  from  here  where  you  can't  see  Daniel, 
you  will  love  Leon  again,  because  you  have  always  loved  him, 
Inda. 

INDA*  I  don't  know  now,  Father;  this  love  isn't  the  same 
I  felt  for  Leon.  That  was  a  good  love;  it  didn't  trouble  me 
and  make  me  cry. 

TOBIAS.  Very  well,  be  a  good  child,  and  some  day  we  won't 
be  so  unhappy.  Now  do  what  your  father  tells  you. 

[Goes  out,  up  stage,  at  the  left.  INDA  sits  down.  Then 
she  gets  up  resolutely  and  looks  about  tier  as  if 
anxiously  seeking  some  one.  JUAN  DE  Dios  sur- 
prises her.  -£" 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  You  surely  aren't  looking  for  me? 

INDA.  [Surprised]  You! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Are  you  frightened?  Think  of  me  fright- 
ening you! 

INDA.  I  haven't  seen  you  all  day,  so  I  thought  you  had 
gone. 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes,  I  have  been  away  ever  since  last 
night. 

INDA.  Since  last  night! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  After  the  dance!  After  you  .  .  .  disap- 
peared from  the  dance  .  .  . 

INDA.  Ah!    You  know! .  . . 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Yes. 

INDA.  [Plcadingly^uan  de  Dios! 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  Have  no  fear;  no  one  but  you,  the  other, 
and  I  know;  and  I'll  say  nothing.  .Why  should  I?  Why 
should  I?  [Sits  doivn.  A  short  pause.] 

INDA.  Where  have  you  been? 

JUAN  DE  Dios.  I  went  over  to  the  pond  where  I  sat  down 
/\ 


ACT  in      THE  WITCHES'    MOUNTAIN  123 

on  the  bank  and  watched  the  water.  It  was  so  green  and 
beautiful!  [A  short  pause]  They  say  that  nobody  has  ever 
found  the  bottom.  Is  that  true? 

INDA.  [Absently]  So  I've  heard. 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  And  that  sometimes,  on  still,  clear  nights, 
one  can  hear  a  sad  song  like  a  plaintive  wail  that  comes  out 
of  the  pond. 

INDA.  I  have  heard  the  same  thing.    They  say  it's  the 
v  cacuy.* . . .  [Pause. 

JTTAN  DE  DIGS.  I  wonder  what  can  be  in  there?  [A  painful 
silence.  He  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  gets  up]  Well,  good-by ! 

INDA.  Are  you  leaving? 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  No;  I've  already  told  you  that  I  shall 
never  leave,  that  I  shall  never  travel  any  more,  that  I  have 
found  what  I  was  looking  for  here. 

INDA.  Then,  are  you  staying? 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  No,  not  that,  either.    What  I  was  looking 
for  is  dead  to  me,  so  why  should  I  stay?    You  have  been 
auubhiMfe.     It's  as  if  you  were  dead  as  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
[Coldly,  leisurely,  he  starts  to  go,  humming  a  little  song. 

INDA.  Juan  de  Dios! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  What  is  it? 

INDA.  [Holding  out  her  hand]  My  hand! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  What  for? 

INDA.  So  as  not  to  separate  like  this. 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Well,  after  all  ... 
Enter  LEON 

LEON.  Inda! 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Are  you  jealous?  Don't  take  it  wrongly; 
I  was  saying  good-by.  .  .  . 

LEON.  Going?    Where? 

1  Cacuy  or  kakue:  a  South  American  bird  whose  cry  is  so  weird 
and  heartrending  that  the  natives  believe -it  is  the  embodiment  of 
human  souls  in  torment. 


124 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  I  don't  know. ...  I  don't  believe  any  one 
knows. 

LEON.  Well,  good-by,  then,  and  good  luck  .  .  . 

JUAN  DE  DIGS.  Good-by  .  .  .  may  you  be  happy — if  you 
can.  [Goes  out  slowly,  up  stage,  to  the  right. 

LEON.  Inda,  your  father  just  told  me  that  you  will  go 
with  me  tonight.  Is  that  true? 

INDA.  [Weakly]  Yes,  Leon. 

LEON.  Then  you  still  love  me?  Nobody  has  taken  your 
<"  love  from  me?  ~Jb»«9MM*MtiiMftMNMfte#  Let  me  hear  your 
Q**"  voice.  You  make  me  suspicious  when  you  act  like  this.  .  .  . 
Speak! 

INDA.  Yes,  Leon;  I  love  you. 

LEON.  At  last  we  are  going  away  from  here,  Inda!  I  was 
afraid  of  these  rocks  ...  I  felt  as  if  they  were  about  to  crush 
me.  AHow  unhappy  I  was  when  I  couldn't  find  you  at  the 
dance  last  night!  I  ran  off  in  despair,  thinking  that  some 
one  had  stolen  you!  Inda,  you  don't  know  how  far  I  went 
over  these  mountains.  When  I  got  back  I  was  half  dead; 
but  then  I  saw  you  and  felt  better  and  happier  than  ever 
before.  As  I  couldn't  tell  you  so  before  so  many  people, 
I  took  out  that  little  handkerchief  you  gave  me  and  went 
into  a  corner  of  the  dormitory,  where  no  one  could  see  me, 
and  kissed  it. 

INDA.  [Weeping]  Leon,  why  didn't  we  go  away  sooner? 

LEON.  Don't  cry,  Inda;  we're  going  away  tonight  whether 
Father  likes  it  or  not.  '  I'm  losing  my  fear  of  him,  Inda, 
I'm  losing  my  fear  of  him.  [Almost  as  if  talking  to  hi?  father, 
very  solemnly]  But  I  shall  come  back  after  I  have  left  you  in 
a  safe  place  —  to  settle  accounts  with  my  father,  and  also  .  . . 
for  something  else.  Zoila  has  told  me  many  things!  The 
bad  man  of  the  story  .  .  .  the  bad  man.  .  .  .  Poor  Mother!  I 
have  given  my  oath  to  her!  [Short  pauw]  Well,  Inda,  we  are 
going  away.  We'll  be  happy  anywhere  once  we  get  away 


125 

v<\ 

from  these  rocks.     Wait  a  minute,  I  have  a  surprise  for  you. 
[Goes  into  the  dormitory  and  returns  with  a  bundle]  Here! 

INDA.  What  is  it? 

LEON.  Untie  it. 

INDA.  A  dress! 

LEON.  Yes,  a  calico  dress.  I  had  it  sent  up  from  down 
below.  And  also  the  handkerchief;  it's  silk.  Look  at  it! 

INDA.  How  good  you  are,  Leon! 

LEON.  Sometimes.  Now  run  along,  Inda,  and  get  ready. 
Make  a  bundle  of  what  you  are  going  to  carry.  I'm  going 
to  get  one  of  my  goats,  for  there  is  nothing  to  eat  where  we 
are  going.  Wait  for  me,  I'll  be  back  soon.  [Up  stage,  facing  Hie 
mountains]  At  last!  At  last!  If  I  could  only  overturn  all 
these  rocks  .  .  .  set  fire  to  all  these  hateful  cabins  .  .  .  not 
even  leave  a  wisp  of  straw  or  a  blade  of  grass  .  .  .  put  an 
end  to  all  this  wicked  place  .  .  .  and  only  leave  ashes,  ashes^-i, 
ashes!  .  .  . 

INDA.  [As  LEON  goes  out  she  moves  rapidly  toward  the  right] 
Daniel !  Daniel ! 

DANIEL.  What  do  you  want? 

INDA.  Leon  wants  to  carry  me  off  now.  . . .  Let's  run  away 
before  he  comes  back! 

DANIEL.  Run  away?    W'hat  for? 

INDA.  He  and  Father  want  me  to  go  away  tonight. 

DANIEL.  But  you're  not  going  to  go  even  if  they  want  you 
to.  You  love  me  and  nobody  can  take  you  from  me! 

INDA.  Leon  will  kill  you!  Let's  run  away,  Daniel.  You 
who  have  treated  me  so  badly,  be  good  to  me  now;  come 
with  me,  don't  stay  here,  he'll  kill  you  .  .  . 

DANIEL.  I  sha'n't  move  from  here.  Let  him  kill  me  if 
he  has  the  courage! 

INDA.  Then  you  don't  love  me.     You've  deceived  me! 

DANIEL.  I  told  you  that  my  love  was  going  to  cost  you  a 
great  many  tears.  .  .  . 


126 

I.VDA.  Brute!    You  always  were  inhuman!^  Leon  is  com- 
ing back  soon.  /What  shall  I  do? 
DANIEL.  [Cynically]  Go  away  with  him! 
INDA.  Deceive  him?    No,  I  don't  want  to!*  Ah,  I'm  so 


unhappy!    [JFieeps.] 

Enter  DON  TADEO 

TADEO.  Daniel^  you're  going  away  with  Inda  immediately. 

DANIEL.  What  did  you  say,  Father? 

TADEO.  You  are  going  at  once!  I've  just  been  over  on  the 
stone  wall,  and  I  saw  Leon  .  .  . 

DANIEL.  What  of  it?    Who's  afraid  of  him? 

TADEO.  I  don't  know  what  it  was  I  saw  in  his  face! 

DANIEL.  You,  Father?    You  —  afraid  of  another  man? 

TADEO.  I've  never  known  what  it  is  to  be  afraid!  Can 
Leon  be  of  my  blood?  Because  only  a  man  of  my  —  [Sud- 

DANIEL.  Father! 

TADEO.  Go,  my  son;  leave  me. 

INDA.  Yes,  Daniel;   let's  go  before  he  gets  back. 

DANIEL.  If  you  order  me  to,  Father,  I'll  go  ...  I'm  not 
afraid  ! 

TADEO.  Yes,  I  order  you  to,  my  son.  ...  Go!  Go!  [Re- 
moves his  leather  hunting  belt  and  hands  it  to  his  son]  Here, 
take  this! 

DANIEL.  Well,  as  long  as  you  order  me  to.  Good-by, 
Father. 

TADEO.  Good-by,  my  son,  good-byl 

[DON  TADEO  goes  into  his  room,  DANIEL  and  INDA 
start  to  go  out,  up  stage,  to  tfie  rightr  They  meet 
TOBIAS  as  he  enters. 

TOBIAS.  Where  are  you  going,  wicked  girl?  Go  into  the 
house! 

INDA.  [Surprised]  Father! 

TOBIAS.  Go  into  the  house! 


ACT  iii      THE  WITCHES'    MOUNTAIN  127 

DANIEL.  She's  going  with  me,  and  I'm  taking  her  away! 
TOBIAS.  No!    No,  you're  not!    Go  into  the  house! 
DANIEL.  Let  go  of  her,  old  man;  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you! 

[They  struggle. 
TOBIAS.  Bandit! 
DANIEL.  Let  go,  old  man! 
TOBIAS.  Leon!    Leon! 

INDA.  What  for,  Father?    Why  deceive  him?    I  don't  love/J* 

n.     Let  me 

[They  go  out,  up  stage,  to  the  vigfo.    TOBIAS  enters  his 

room.  ,,  ,—  '-) 

y  ti  *• 

TOBIAS.  Wretch!  ,  You'll  ha  veto  kill  me  first!    Yousha'n't 
go!    No!    Leon!    Leon! 

[DON  TADEO  comes  out  as  TOBIAS  gives  a  piercing  cry  - 
of  (jritf,    DON  TADEO  follows  the  fugitives  anxiously 
with  his  eyes.     Enter  LEON  at  left.  /._ 

LEON.  Who  is  calh'ng  me? 

TADEO.  [Surprised,  coldly]  I,  I  called  you. 

LEON.  You!    What  for? 

TADEO.  You  wanted  to  run  away  with  Inda,  didn't  you? 

LEON.  Yes. 

TADEO.  Well,  you  can  take  her  now. 

LEON.  I  was  just  going  to.    Inda  is  waiting  for  me.    But 
I  want  to  tell  you  something  first. 

TADEO.  What  is  it? 

LEON.  That  I'm  coming  back! 

TADEO.  For  your  goats? 

LEON.  For  them  .  .  .  and  something  else! 

TADEO.  What? 

LEON.  I  want  to  know  why  my  mother  appeared  to  me. 

TADEO.  Your  mother!    Ah! 

LEON.  Yes,  my  mother!    My  mother!    And  whether  all 
they  say  is  true! 


128  THE  WITCHES'    MOUNTAIN      ACT  m 

TADEO.  Ah!    You  wanted  to  come  back  for  that? 

LEON.  Yes! 

TADEO.  You're  going  to  find  out  right  now.^Did  they  tell 
you  that  I  was  very  cruel  to  her,  that  I  was  very  jealous, 
that  I  made  her  suffer  very  much? 

LEON.  Yes,  yes!   ^J}  A-  **,«*. M.T  / 

TADEO.  That  I  accused  her  of  being  unfaithful  to  me,  out 
of  revenge,  with  a  muleteer  who  spent  the  night  here? 

LEON.  Yes,  yes! 

TADEO.  That  that  night  just  at  daybreak  I  made  old  Tobias 
lead  him  on  some  pretext  or  other  to  the  Alto  Grande  cliff, 
and  that  then,  from  where  I  was  hidden  behind  a  rock,  I 
gave  him  a  push  and  threw  him  over  the  cliff? 

LEON.  Ah! 

TADEO.  And  that  after  that  I  tied  your  mother  to  a  chair 
and  made  her  sleep  in  the  open  on  the  roughest  winter  nights? 

LEON.  Ah! 

TADEO.  And  that  one  night  they  found  your  mother  dead, 
frozen  white,  and  covered  with  snow?  Is  that  what  they  told 
you? 

LEON.  Well?    Is  it  true?    Did  you  do  that  to  my  mother? 

TADEO.  Ah!    [Laughs] 

LEON.  [Savagely]  Answer  me!    Answer  me^ 

TADEO.  Yes!    I  killed  her!    I  killed  her!  She  deoewwLiae! 

LEON.  You  lie! 

TADEO.  £•'••',  U*  •:••  n-rd  r^r;!  She  was  the  only  one  I  loved! 
That's  why  I  killed  her! 

LEON.  Bad  man!    Vile  man! 

TADEO.  But  she  died  too  soon!  I  didn't  know  that  one 
could  die  so  easily.  That's  why  you  lived!  Don't  you  un- 
derstand that  I  could  have  strangled  you,  that  I  could  have 
torn  you  to  pieces  at  birth?  But  I  didn't  want  to;  I  prom- 
ised your  mother  that  you  should  live.  Yes,  I  needed  your 
life,  your  body,  your  blood  for  my  vengeance!  For  twenty 


ACT  in     THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN  129 

years  I  have  detested  you,  suffered  you;  I  have  not  lived, 
have  not  slept,  I  have  had  horrible  nightmares,  and  phantoms 
and  devils  dog  my  footsteps!  For  twenty  years  you  have 
tormented  me  by  your  presence,  by  the  memory  of  her  whom 
I  loved  as  no  other  man  ever  loved  a  woman!  Now  that 
you  know,  now  that  your  life  is  poisoned  forever  as  mine 
has  been,  now  that  you  can  never  laugh  again  .  .  .  you  may 
go;  I  am  content.  You  have  paid  me  for  all  I  have  suffered! 
Go!  Go! 

LEON.  No,  not  yet!    I  don't  wish  to! 

TADEO.  Leave  this  place!    Go! 

LEON.  I  don't  wish  to  go!.  Now  it  is  my  turn  to  master 


you 


TADEO.  Me?    Neither  you  nor  anybody  else  can  do  that! 

LEON.  You  tiger,  you!  May  the  devil  take  you!  Curse 
you! 

[TADEO  starts  to  throw  himself  upon  LEON,  whom  he 
wishes  once  more  to  master. 

LEON.  [Removes  his  poncho  and  hurls  it  in  his  face]  Now 
indeed! 

TADEO.  [With  the  poncho  over  his  head,  holding  out  his  arms 
as  if  the  truth  were  suddenly  revealed  to  him]  Leon!  You  are 
my  son!  My  son! 

LEON.  [Falls  upon  his  father  with  a  sudden  leap.  There 
is  a  short  struggle  until  he  succeeds  in  striking  his  father's  head 
against  a  rock  again  and  again]  Now  you  are  mastered! 
Forever!  Fdrever!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  [Runs  up  stage.  Comes 
back  and  stands  silent,  paralyzed  with  terror.  DON  TADEO'S 
body,  which  has  slipped  from  the  rock,  gazes  at  LEON  with 
open  eyes.  After  a  pause  he  approaches  the  body  and  turns  it 
over  with  his  foot  in  superstitious  terror]  Even  after  death  you 
still  wish  to  master  me! 

[With  his  back  up  stage,  he  confronts  the  body  in  fear, 

DANIEL'S  VOICE.  [O/  stage]  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 


130 


THE  WITCHES'  MOUNTAIN      ACT  in 


[Far  off  on  the  mountainside  one  sees  DANIEL  with 
INDA  in  his  arms,  LEON  turns  around  and  roars 
savagely  when  he  sees  them. 

LEON.  He's  carrying  her  off!  She's  going  with  him!  No, 
they  sha'n't  take  her  away  from  me!  [Calling]  Inda!  Inda! 
[Dejectedly]  But  why?  She  doesn't  love  me!  She  never  loved 
me!  [Complete  surrender.  He  weeps  bitterly.  Then  he  becomes 
somber,  mule,  tragic,  vacant.  At  last,  with  a  mental  upset  that 
degenerates  into  utter  madness  in  his  last  words]  Father!  Father! 
[The  flapping  of  the  wings  of  a  passing  condor  is  heard.  LEON 
follows  it  with  his  eyes.  Then,  standing  erect  upon  a  rock] 
Father!  I  am  the  condor!  I  am  the  condor!  I  am  the 
condor! . 


Curtain 


APPENDIX   A 

NOTES 

The  following  Notes  consist  of  excerpts  from  The  Literary 
History  of  Spanish  America,  written  by  Alfred  Coester  and 
published  by  The  MacMillan  Company.  This  book  covers 
so  wide  a  field  that  it  cannot  give  more  than  a  rather  brief 
sketch  of  the  literature  of  each  country,  but  as  a  sympathetic 
and  understanding  study,  and  as  a  piece  of  research  in  a  virgin 
territory,  so  far  as  the  Anglo-Saxon  is  concerned,  the  work 
is  invaluable.  I  have  utilized  the  material  contained  in 
the  chapter  entitled  "Argentina." — ED. 

NOTE  A 

"Coronado,  on  the  other  hand,  essayed  the  drama  in  pro- 
ductions the  most  important  since  those  of  Marmol.  La  Rosa 
Blanca,  1877,  dramatizes  the  efforts  of  a  physician  to  cure  a 
girl  who  had  become  insane  through  disappointed  love. 
Luz  de  Luna  y  Luz  de  Incendio,  played  a  year  later,  stages 
with  great  realism  the  days  of  Rosas.  Cuitino,  a  despicable 
villain  and  an  officer  of  the  tyrant,  appears  at  an  evening  party, 
where  he  succeeds  in  getting  his  victim,  young  Emilia,  to 
betray  his  umcarian  sentiments,  whereat  he  is  arrested  and 
taken  to  the  barracks  of  the  Federal  sol<1:ers.  The  scene  at 
the  barracks  gives  opportunity  for  declamatory  eloquence 
from  Emilio.  The  drunken  Cuitino  and  his  soldiers  display 
the  utmost  brutality  and  thereby  prepare  the  spectator  for 
the  killings  in  the  last  act. 

131 


132  APPENDIX    A 

"These  plays  were  partly  the  outcome  of  the  efforts  of  a 
literary  society,  the  'Academia  Argentina,'  to  promote  the 
theater.  The  members  proclaimed  themselves  disciples  of 
Echeverrfa,  with  the  purpose  of  nationalizing  literature  on  the 
model  of  La  Catitiva." 

NOTE  B 

"But  Eduardo  Gutierrez,  by  adapting  one  of  the  episodes 
of  his  novel,  Juan  Moreira,  to  pantomimic  representation  in 
a  circus,  opened  another  path  in  literature  to  the  gaucho. 
At  first  to  fill  the  part  in  the  pantomime  real  gauchos  rode 
their  horses  into  the  circus  and  strummed  the  guitar.  Soon 
sj>oken  dialogue  was  added  to  their  roles.  In  this  play  the 
brothers  Podestd  achieved  a  reputation  and  continued  it 
independent  of  the  circus.  Their  success  encouraged  them 
to  stage  Martin  Ficrro.  Then  original  plays  about  gauchos 
were  written  both  in  Argentina  and  in  Uruguay.  So  to  the 
present  day  the  gaucho  lias  kept  the  stage.  And  from  this 
popular  origin  has  developed  a  class  of  plays  which  represent 
the  manners  and  speech  of  the  lower  classes." 


NOTE  C 

"The  first  edition  of  Fausto  distributer!  twenty  thousand 
copies,  the  proceeds  of  which  were  donated  to  the  military 
hospitals.  But  more  popular  still  has  been  Martin  Firrrn, 
published  in  1872,  by  Jose  Hernandez  (18;54-8(>).  The 
author  was  a  journalist  in  Buenos  Aires  who  founder!  the 
Revista  del  Rio  dc,  la  Plata.  The  editions  of  his  poem,  nearly 
tripled  in  length  by  the  addition  of  a  second  part,  IM  Vudta 
dc  Martin  Finrro,  are  still  issuer!.  As  a  measure  of  its  popu- 
larity may  be  taken  the  fact  that  it  used  to  be  on  sale  La 
country  groceries,  and  the  often  quoterl  anecdote  of  the 


APPENDIX    A  133 

messenger  sent  to  buy  various  supplies,  and  'the  latest  part 
of  Martin  Fierro.' 

"The  poem  relates  in  the  language  and  manner  of  the 
gaucho  the  story  of  Martin  Fierro's  misfortunes.  Once  a 
small  farmer  with  wife  and  child,  he  was  taken  from  them 
by  a  recruiting  officer.  The  regiment  into  which  he  was 
drafted  fights  with  the  Indians.  After  a  while  he  deserts 
and  returns  to  his  farm.  He  finds  it  without  signs  of  life 
and  the  buildings  burnt.  So  he  becomes  a  matrero,  or 
gaucho  outlaw,  in  company  with  one  Cruz.  Tired  of  being 
hunted  by  the  police,  Martin  smashes  his  guitar  as  a  sign 
of  renouncing  his  ties  with  the  white  race,  and  joins  the 
Indians.  La  Vuelta  de  Martin  Fierro,  on  his  return  to 
civilization,  has  less  movement,  and  long  moralizing  sermons 
by  Padre  Vizcacha.  These,  however,  were  not  displeasing 
to  its  readers  who  found  their  own  sentiments  voiced  by  his 
words.  The  generation  who  received  this  poem  understood 
it  as  a  challenge  to  the  government  in  Buenos  Aires  that 
was  legislating  for  the  country  people  without  understanding 
their  needs." 

NOTE  D 

"With  less  realism  and  more  of  the  artistry  demanded  by 
Mitre,  the  gaucho  next  appeared  in  verse  in  the  Tradiciones 
Argentinas,  by  Rafael  Obligado.  These  three  brief  poems  are 
poetical  interpretations  of  the  Santos  Vega  legend.  In  the 
first  a  payador  relates  how  the  ghost  of  Santos  Vega,  had 
played  at  night  on  a  guitar  accidentally  left  by  a  well.  The 
second  brings  the  famous  gaucho  to  a  ghostly  love  tryst. 
The  third  narrates  the  death  of  Santos  Vega  in  contest  with 
an  unknown  payador,  to  whom  Obligado  gives  the  symbolic 
name,  Juan  Sin  Ropa.  According  to  the  legend  Santos  Vega, 
the  unexcelled,  had  succumbed  only  in  a  contest  with  the 
Devil;  but  this  victor's  name  typifies  the  new  immigration 


134  APPENDIX    A 

which  has  brought  about  the  passing  of  the  old  conditions  in 
the  country.  In  the  words  of  the  poem,  Juan  Sin  Ropa's 
song  'was  the  mighty  cry  of  progress  on  the  wind.'" 

NOTE  E 

"Though  the  officially  printed  collection  of  Sarmiento's 
writings  fill  fifty  volumes,  his  literary  fame  is  based  on  those 
already  mentioned.  The  characteristics  of  his  style,  its  swift 
movement,  his  ability  to  select  the  striking  detail  or  apt 
anecdote,  may  be  partly  illustrated  by  the  following  extract 
from  the  description  of  Argentina  in  the  first  part  of  Facundo.1 
Moreover,  no  better  introduction  could  be  given  to  a  study 
of  the  development  of  the  most  original  of  all  Spanish- 
American  poetry,  that  pertaining  to  the  gaucho. 

"'  There  is  another  poetry  which  echoes  over  the  solitary 
plains,  the  popular,  natural,  and  irregular  poetry  of  the 
gaucho.  In  1840  Echeverria,  then  a  young  man,  lived  some 
months  in  the  country,  where  the  fame  of  his  verses  upon 
the  pampa  had  already  preceded  him;  the  gauchos  sur- 
rounded him  with  respect  and  affection,  and  when  a  new- 
comer showed  symptoms  of  the  scorn  he  felt  for  the  little 
minstrel,  some  one  whispered,  "He  is  a  poet,"  and  that  word 
dispelled  every  prejudice. 

"'It  is  well  known  that  the  guitar  is  the  popular  instrument 
of  the  Spanish  race;  it  is  also  common  in  South  America. 
The  majo  or  troubadour  is  discoverable  in  the  gaucho  of  the 
country,  and  in  the  townsman  of  the  same  class.  The 
cielito,  the  dance  of  the  pampas,  is  animated  by  the  same 

1  Facundo  was  translated  by  Mrs.  Horace  Mann  and  published 
under  the  title  of  Life  in  the  Argentine  Republic  in  the  Time  of  Tyrants, 
Boston,  1868.  The  volume  also  contains  other  extracts  from 
Sarmiento's  writings,  especially  from  the  Recuerdos  de  Proiincia, 
dealing  with  his  family. 


APPENDIX    A  135 

spirit  as  the  Spanish  jaleo,  the  dance  of  Andalusia;  the 
dancer  makes  castanets  of  his  fingers;  all  his  movements  dis- 
close the  ma  jo;  the  action  of  his  shoulders,  his  gestures,  all 
his  ways,  from  that  in  which  he  puts  on  his  hat  to  his  style 
of  spitting  through  his  teeth,  all  are  of  the  pure  Andalusian 
type. 

"'The  name  of  gaucho  outlaw  is  not  applied  wholly  as  an 
uncomplimentary  epithet.  The  law  has  been  for  many  years 
in  pursuit  of  him.  His  name  is  dreaded,  spoken  under  the 
breath,  but  not  in  hate,  and  almost  respectfully.  He  is  a 
mysterious  personage;  his  abode  is  the  pampa;  his  lodgings 
are  the  thistle  fields;  he  lives  on  partridges  and  hedgehogs, 
and  whenever  he  is  disposed  to  regale  himself  upon  a  tongue, 
he  lassoes  a  cow,  throws  her  without  assistance,  kills  her, 
takes  his  favorite  morsel,  and  leaves  the  rest  for  the  carrion 
birds.  The  gaucho  outlaw  will  make  his  appearance  in  a 
place  just  left  by  soldiers,  will  talk  in  a  friendly  way  with  the 
admiring  group  of  good  gauchos  around  him;  provide  him- 
self with  tobacco,  yerba  mate,  which  makes  a  refreshing 
beverage,  and  if  he  discovers  the  soldiers,  he  mounts  his 
horse  quietly  and  directs  his  steps  leisurely  to  the  wilderness, 
not  even  deigning  to  look  back.  He  is  seldom  pursued;  that 
would  be  killing  horses  to  no  purpose,  for  the  beast  of  the 
gaucho  outlaw  is  a  bay  courser,  as  noted  in  his  own  way 
as  his  master.  If  he  ever  happens  to  fall  unawares  into  the 
hands  of  the  soldiers,  he  sets  upon  the  densest  masses  of 
his  assailants,  and  breaks  through  them,  with  the  help  of  a 
few  slashes  left  by  his  knife  upon  the  faces  or  bodies  of  his 
opponents;  and  lying  along  the  ridge  of  his  horse's  back 
to  avoid  the  bullets  sent  after  him,  he  hastens  toward  the 
wilderness,  until,  having  left  his  pursuers  at  a  convenient 
distance,  he  pulls  up  and  travels  at  his  ease.  The  poets 
of  the  vicinity  add  this  new  exploit  to  the  biography  of 
the  desert  hero,  and  his  renown  flies  through  all  the  vast 


136  APPENDIX   A 

region  around.  Sometimes  he  appears  before  the  scene  of  a 
rustic  festival  with  a  young  woman  whom  he  has  carried 
off,  and  takes  a  place  in  the  dance  with  his  partner,  goes 
through  the  figures  of  the  cielito,  and  disappears,  unnoticed. 
Another  day  be  brings  the  girl  he  has  seduced  to  the  house  of 
her  offended  family,  sets  her  down  from  his  horse's  croup, 
and  reckless  of  the  parents'  curses  by  which  he  is  followed, 
quietly  betakes  himself  to  his  boundless  abode. 

" '  And  now  we  have  the  idealization  of  this  life  of  resistance, 
civilization,  barbarism,  and  danger.  The  gaucho  Cantor 
corresponds  to  the  singer,  bard,  or  troubadour  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  Cantor  has  no  fixed  abode;  he  lodges  where  night 
surprises  him;  his  fortune  consists  in  his  verses  and  in  his 
voice.  Wherever  the  wild  mazes  of  the  cielito  are  threaded, 
wherever  there  is  a  glass  of  wine  to  drink,  the  Cantor  has  his 
place  and  his  particular  part  in  the  festival.  The  Argentine 
gaucho  only  drinks  when  excited  by  music  and  verse,  and 
every  grocery  has  its  guitar  ready  for  the  hands  of  the  Cantor 
who  perceives  from  afar  where  the  help  of  his  "gay  science" 
is  needed,  by  the  group  of  horses  about  the  door. 

:"The  Cantor  intersperses  his  heroic  songs  with  the  tale  of 
his  own  exploits.  Unluckily  his  profession  of  Argentine  bard 
does  not  shield  him  from  the  law.  He  can  tell  of  a  couple 
of  stabs  he  has  dealt,  of  one  or  two  "misfortunes"  (homicides) 
of  his,  and  of  some  horse  or  girl  he  carried  off. 

"To  conclude,  the  original  poetry  of  the  minstrel  is  clumsy, 
monotonous,  and  irregular,  when  he  resigns  himself  to  the  in- 
spiration of  the  moment.  It  is  occupied  rather  with  narration 
than  with  the  expression  of  feeling,  and  is  replete  with 
imagery  relating  to  the  open  country,  to  the  horse,  and  to 
the  scenes  of  the  wilderness,  which  makes  it  metaphorical 
and  grandiose.  When  he  is  describing  his  own  exploits  or 
those  of  some  renowned  evil-doer,  he  resembles  the  Neapolitan 
improvisatore,  his  style  being  unfettered,  commonly  prosaic, 


APPENDIX   A  137 

but  occasionally  rising  to  .the  poetic  level  for  some  moments, 
to  sink  again  into  dull  and  scarcely  metrical  recitation.  The 
Cantor  possesses,  moreover,  a  repertory  of  popular  poems 
in  octosyllabic  lines  variously  combined  into  stanzas  of 
five  lines,  of  ten,  or  of  eight.  Among  them  are  many  com- 
positions of  merit  which  show  some  inspiration  and  feeling.' 

"The  character  whom  Sarmiento  terms  a  'cantor*  was 
more  popularly  known  in  Buenos  Aires  as  a  'payador,'  a 
name  derived  from  the  verb  'payar'  meaning  to  improvise  in 
verse  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  guitar.  As  Sarmieiito 
intimates,  the  popular  poetry  of  Argentina  is  a  derivative 
of  the  Andalusian  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  has  a  long  popular 
development.  The  episodes  related  by  the  payador  reveal 
a  certain  epic  quality  tinged  with  Moorish  sadness,  but 
tempered  by  the  Andalusian  keenness  for  the  satirical  and 
the  comic.  Frequent  also  is  the  intent  to  teach  a  moral 
lesson;  barbarous  at  times,  for  the  purpose  often  is  to  in- 
culcate a  spirit  of  rebellion." 


APPENDIX   B 

The  following  extracts  have  been  reprinted  from  the  ver- 
sions of  Juan  Moreira  and  Santos  Vega,  translated  for  use 
in  this  volume.  They  may  be  of  service  in  assisting  the 
reader  to  form  an  idea  of  the  somewhat  peculiar  verse  forma- 
tion and  of  the  structure  of  the  plays  themselves. 

The  excerpt  from  Juan  Moreira  shows  both  the  verse  and 
the  prose,  the  play  being  written  in  a  combination  of  both 
mediums,  and  displays  also  the  dialect  in  which  the  original 
is  written.  It  will  be  observed  that  the  drama  is  divided 
into  scenes,  a  scheme  which  has  not  been  followed  in  the 
translation,  as  it  was  deemed  confusing  and  unnecessary. 
This  is  common  in  nearly  all  Spanish  plays,  and  at  the  time 
of  Sardou  was  generally  used  in  French  drama.  What  are 
called  scenes  in  this  translation  are  called  in  the  original 
cuadros,  or  pictures,  a  designation  that  has  some  significance. 

Santos  Vega  is  written  entirely  in  verse,  and  the  extract 
from  it  shows  the  ordinary  verse  of  the  drama  proper  as  well 
as  that  of  one  of  the  songs. 

It  has  been  considered  advisable  to  make  the  translations 
wholly  in  prose,  for  only  in  that  way  could  the  atmosphere 
of  the  original  be  duplicated  or  retained.  A  verse  translation 
would  not  only  be  difficult  but,  under  the  circumstances,  next 
to  impossible. — ED. 


APPENDIX   B  139 

JUAN  MOREIRA 

The  following  is  taken  from  the  end  of  Scene  Five,  Act  Two. 

ESCENA    III 

Dichos  y  VICENTA  arrodillada 

VICENTA.  iPerdon,  mi  Juan  querido!    Yo  cref  que  ya  te 
habfas  muerto. 

J.  MOREIRA.  iY  por  eso  me  enganabas,  canalla? 
VICENTA.  [Suplicante]  iNo,  mi  Juan! 
J.  MOREIRA.  <iY  ese  hombre  que  salio  recidn? 
VICENTA.  iDios  mfo!  [Se  desmaya.] 

J.  MOREIRA.  El   rimordimiento    te    valga.    Adios,    Tata 
Viejo!    i Adios,  cachorro  e*  mi  alma!    la  partida  va  en  mi 
acecho  y  no  tardara"  en  yigar  &  este  rancho. 
TATA  VIEJO.  iHijo! 
JUANCITO.  iTatita  mio! 
J.  MOREIRA.  iNo  puedo!    iDebo  partir! 
a  peliar  con  la  partida 
hasta  veneer  6  morir. 
iAdi6s,  familia  querida! 
[Les  suelta  tin  beso  y  vase] 
TATA  VIEJO.  i  Cachorro!  venf  a"  mis  brazos. 
[JUANCITO  lo  abraza] 
Lloremos  por  tu  tatita, 
deshonrao  villanamente 
por  aqueya,  tu  mamita. 

ESCENA  IV 

Dichos,  SARGENTO  y  cuatro  policianos. 
SARGENTO.  iJuan  Moreira! 
TATA  VIEJO.  [Retrocediendo]  <JEh? 


140  APPENDIX   B 

SARGENTO.       Escondido  aquf  ha  d'  star, 

y  sin  andarle  cuerpiando 

lo  dibemos  d'  yivar. 
TATA  VIEJO.  JPor  favor! 
SARGENTO.  Tuito  es  al  fiudo 

amarren  bien  6,  este  viejo, 

de  manera  que  le  queden 

las  marcas  en  el  peyejo. 
JUANCITO.  iMamita! 
TATA  VIEJO.  iBarbaros!    iCanayas! 

no  se  'ste'n  ansl  abusando, 

pelen  tuitos  las  charrascas; 

vamos  d  morir  peliando. 

[El  SARGENTO  le  apunta,  el  TATA  VIEJO 
forcejea,  y  cae  el. 

Telon  rdpido 


SANTOS  VEGA 

The  following  is  from  Ike  first  part  of  tJie  Second  Ad,  where 
ROSA  and  GUMERSINDO  ask  SANTOS  VEGA  to  sing  them  a  song. 

GUMERSIN.  [Saliendo  de  la  pulperia] 

iAhijuna,  ch6,  Santos  Vega! 
VICENTA.     [A  RUFINA,  quc  sale] 

iEl  mejor  cantor  del  mundo! 
GUMERSIN.  [A  los  paisanos  que  van  saliendo  de  la  pulperia] 

iEl  alma  de  nuestra  tierra! 

[Todos  sahidan  y  rodean  al  payador] 
ROSA.  Yo  que  nunca  lo  he  escuchado 

ahura  escucharlo  quisiera, 


APPENDIX    B  141 

VICENTA.     Haga  vibrar  la  guitarra 

dando  comienzo  a  la  fiesta 

para  que  antes  que  ninguna 

ella  suene  la  primera. 
GUKERSIN.  Saque  al  viento  una  cancion 

donde  ponga  el  alma  entera: 

su  alma  brava  y  melanc6Hca 

qu'es  el  alma  de  esta  tierra. 
SANTOS.        [Disponiendose  d  cantar] 

iAW  va  mi  cancion  y  mi  alma 

que  nunca  canto  sin  ella! 

[En  eslilo  triste  y  acompandndose  con  la  guitarra] 

Como  el  ombti  corpulento 

parece  que  est&  llorando 

sus  hojas  cuando  cantando 

hiere  sus  ramas  el  viento, 

yo  tambien  en  mi  tormento 

de  todas  mis  aflicciones 

voy  llorando  mis  canciones 

que  como  hojas  dispersadas 

se  lleva  el  viento  en  bandadas 

de  dolientes  corazones. 


APPENDIX   C 
THE  NATIONAL  DRAMA  OF  THE  ARGENTINE 

BY 

JACINTO  BENAVENTE 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  SPANISH  BY 
JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERBILL 

The  theater  subsisted  for  many  years  in  the  Argentine 
Republic  upon  imported  fare,  offering  a  free  haven  to  the 
dramatic  literatures  of  the  world.  But,  as  could  scarcely 
be  otherwise  among  a  people  of  such  culture  and  importance, 
Argentina  possesses  today  a  national  drama  of  its  own  which 
is  deserving  of  study  and  sufficiently  developed  to  occupy 
two  theaters  with  credit  and  profit,  in  which  no  plays  are 
performed  except  those  by  native  authors. 

In  origin  the  Argentine  drama  was  unmistakably  popular. 
Its  characters  and  plots  are  alike  thoroughly  typical  of  the 
gaucho  spirit,  while  its  heroes  are  suggestive  of  Martin  Fitrro, 
of  the  celebrated  poem  of  that  name,  which  is  certainly  the 
most  genuine  popular  poetic  creation,  whether  considered 

Editor's  Note:  It  is  entirely  through  the  generosity  of  Mr.  Underhill 
and  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  that  I  am  able  to  reprint  this  essay 
which  here  appears  in  English  for  the  first  time.  It  was  first  pub- 
lished in  the  Ueraldo  of  Madrid,  and  was  afterward  collected  in 
book  form  under  the  title,  El  Teatro  del  Pueblo,  Madrid,  1909.  Before 
it  was  used  by  the  Hcraldo  the  e.ssay  came  out  in  one  of  the  Buenos 
Aires  daily  papers. 

Benavente  visited  the  Argentine  just  previous  to  1909  and  in  his 
volume  of  Table  Talk,  Madrid,  1910,  he  has  this  to  say  of  his  visit. 

"I  have  already  been  in  Buenos  Aires,  but  I  was  not  in  the  class  of 
142 


APPENDIX    C  143 

from  the  point  of  view  of  form  or  of  substance,  that  is  known 
to  literature.  Nowhere  else  have  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
paisano,  his  language,  his  mode  of  thought  and  feeling,  been 
so  faithfully  conveyed,  or  the  collective  consciousness  of  the 
people  so  nicely  reflected  by  the  individual  genius  of  the 
artist  as  in  this  admirable  poem.  The  heroes  of  the  popular 
Argentine  drama  are  all  Martin  Fierros,  gauchos  born  upon 
the  pampas,  with  a  limitless  expanse  stretching  about  them 
which  is  eloquent  of  liberty,  like  the  brook  to  Sigismund, 
murmuring  of  far  fields  lying  open  to  his  flight.  At  the  same 
time  they  are  touched  with  melancholy,  with  that  wistful 
yearning  of  the  eyes  and  of  the  soul  before  which  vast  spaces 
have  been  unrolled,  which  may,  indeed,  be  desired,  in  one 
life,  but  which  many  lives  would  not  suffice  to  explore.  There 
is  something  of  the  Arab  in  the  fatalism  and  ferocity  of  these 
men — and  also  something  of  the  Spaniard  as  well,  although 
this  is  included  in  the  Arab — as  if  here,  too,  men  believed 
that  what  must  be  has  been  already  written,  and  stood  pre- 
pared to  hurl  themselves  against  the  destiny  of  their  fate  in 
blind  assault — which  is  our  own  history — in  the  pretense 
that  by  the  mere  impact  they  might  blot  out  one  jot  of  what 
had  been  set  down  in  its  immutable  decrees. 

The  rebellion  of  the  gaucho  spirit  at  the  encroachments  of 

popular  celebrities.  I  was  not  received  with  a  band,  I  delivered  no 
lectures,  and  nobody  became  at  all  enthusiastic.  The  Argentines 
did  not  lose  their  heads  over  me,  nor  I  mine  over  them.  I  went 
to  travel,  to  see,  without  attaching  more  importance  to  the  trip 
than  to  any  other.  When  I  returned  I  did  not  consider  myself 
justified  in  publishing  'impressions'  or  'My  Voyage  to  Argentine' 
or  any  other  book  of  the  sort  now  in  fashion,  because  I  did  not  feel 
that  one  or  two  months  were  sufficient  time  in  which  to  learn  any- 
thing, much  less  to  wax  eloquent  over  the  future  of  the  Argentine, 
its  industries,  or  its  intellectual  achievements.  What  I  saw  I  re- 
tained for  myself,  and  what  I  assimilated  will  appear  in  due  season." 
We  may  take  it  then  that  this  essay  on  "The  National  Drama  of 
the  Argentine"  is  the  partial  result  of  the  assimilation  of  which 
Benavente  speaks. 


144  APPENDIX   C 

civilization  upon  the  free  domain  of  the  pampas  provides 
the  element  of  conflict  in  these  plays.  There  is  much  of  the 
spirit  of  our  Spanish  poetry  and  popular  drama  in  their 
protagonists.  The  Weaver  of  Segovia,  Euscbio  in  Tfie 
Devotion  of  the  Cross,  Paulo  in  El  condenado  por  desconfiado, 
Manrique,  Don  Alvaro,  and  even  Tenorio  himself  are  easily 
recognizable  as  of  the  kin  of  Martin  Fierro,  Juan  Moreira, 
and  Santos  Vega  the  Payador. 

When  acted,  the  plays  lose  nothing  of  their  popular  flavor. 
Rather,  it  is  enhanced  by  familiar  songs  and  dances,  such 
as  the  tidalitas,  cielos,  tr isles,  decimas,  Pcricdn  con  relaciones, 
El  goto,  and  others  of  the  sort.  The  actors  are  incomparable 
masters  of  picturesque  realism.  In  no  other  way  may  so 
vivid  an  idea  of  what  the  primitive  popular  theaters  must 
have  been  be  obtained  as  by  attending  these  performances. 
Nothing  could  more  strikingly  suggest  the  atmosphere  of  the 
productions  of  the  Globe  Theater  in  London  or  those  of  our 
own  corrals  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries. 

Yet  the  Argentine  theater  of  today  no  longer  confines  itself 
to  the  depiction  of  popular  customs  or  to  the  portrayal  of 
the  popular  point  of  view.  So  distinctly  individual  a  nation, 
whose  characteristics  are  so  strongly  marked  both  politically 
and  socially,  despite  the  fact  that  it  is  composed  of  diverse 
elements  of  the  most  thorough  cosmopolitanism,  can  but 
stimulate  the  playwright  and  invite  him  to  probe  its  life  in 
all  its  complexity.  Those  who  condemn  contemporary  Ar- 
gentine literature  because  it  has  been  influenced  by  foreign 
tendencies,  accusing  it  more  particularly  of  having  been 
completely  gallicized,  ignore  the  fact  that  no  civilized  nation 
today  has  escaped  this  hue  of  uniformity,  which  to  the  super- 
ficial observer  invariably  appears  to  be  French,  when  in  truth 
it  is  nothing  more  than  the  coloring  of  civilization.  How 
require  the  artist  to  shut  his  eyes  and,  becoming  a  greater 
Papist  than  the  Pope,  reproduce  only  what  has  ceased  to 


APPENDIX   C  145 

exist  elsewhere  throughout  the  social  fabric?  It  is  too  much 
like  asking  the  man  of  mature  years  to  ape  the  manners  of  a 
child,  which  in  one  of  tender  age  are  becoming.  Arts  and 
graces  out  of  their  proper  sphere  divest  themselves  of  all 
charm.  What  can  be  more  impertinently  disagreeable  than 
the  artist  who  affects  the  ingenuousness  and  simplicity  of  the 
primitive,  striving  to  be  classic  with  reminiscences  of  Cer- 
vantes and  the  trappings  of  Santa  Teresa?  As  our  life  is  no 
longer  that  life,  why  masquerade  in  the  garments  of  the  era? 
These  are  appropriate  enough,  no  doubt,  in  their  proper 
place,  where  they  may  be  admired  and  studied  behind  glass 
in  the  cabinets  of  archaeological  museums,  but  they  are 
wholly  unsuitable  when  paraded  down  our  modern  streets 
among  automobiles  and  trolley-cars.  To  shed  tears  over  the 
classic  is  a  weakness  of  decrepit  criticism. 

Argentine  is  too  young  and  vigorous  a  nation  to  father  an 
art  which  is  founded  upon  tradition.  There  are  no  ruins  in 
the  country  over  which  to  lament.  How  fortunate  a  people 
that  possess  no  Gothic  cathedrals?  Here  is  a  country  in 
wliich  art  keeps  step  with  life.  The  modern  Argentine  drama 
contrives  not  to  be  left  at  the  portal,  as  has  been  the  fate 
of  the  theater  for  the  most  part  throughout  history,  where  it 
has  forever  lagged  behind  every  other  form  of  artistic  en- 
deavor. In  the  romantic  movement  it  was  outstripped  both 
by  poetry  and  the  novel,  nor  has  the  sequence  been  other- 
wise in  the  later  days  of  naturalism  and  of  symbolism. 

The  Argentine  drama  refuses  to  lag  behind.  Whether  or 
not  its  achievements  have  been  more  notable  than  those  of 
poetry  and  the  novel,  it  is  in  no  sense  an  anachronism  among 
them,  as  it  has  been  and  doubtless  still  is  among  other 
peoples.  Plays  of  genuine  merit  are  offered  continuously 
for  public  attention.  It  has  not  been  possible  for  me  to 
acquaint  myself  with  many  of  them,  for  the  reason  that 
Argentine  playwrights  refrain  from  publishing  their  works,  ia 


146  APPENDIX   C 

common  with  a  majority  of  their  English  and  French  brethren, 
in  order  that  they  may  better  protect  themselves  against  the 
incursions  of  the  philosophical  managers,  who  have  accepted 
Proudhon's  doctrine  that  "Property  is  a  form  of  theft," 
interpreting  it  as  having  especial  reference  to  literary  property. 

Among  the  better-known  plays,  Los  Muertos,  by  Florencio 
Sanchez,  deserves  mention.  It  I'as  been  warmly  praised, 
the  author  being  held  in  high  esteem  by  his  countrymen. 
Much  is  justly  expected  of  him,  as  he  is  still  a  young  man. 
Gregorio  Laferrere  is  a  master  of  dialogue,  an  adept  in 
painting  society  and  social  usages.  His  play  Jettatare  has 
been  favorably  received  in  Madrid.  Le6n  Pagano,  Garcia 
Velloso,  and  Jimenez  Pastor  have  also  written  pieces  of  real 
merit,  so  that  it  may  be  anticipated  that  the  Argentine  theater 
will  shortly  be  equipped  with  authors  and  plays  in  ample 
number  to  free  it  from  dependence  upon  the  production  of 
foreign  countries.  Nevertheless,  the  foreign  is  still  much 
affected  in  certain  quarters,  as  it  is  among  us,  although  these, 
happily,  are  narrowly  defined.  To  look  upon  native  art  with 
contempt  is  a  foolish  frailty  of  Spanish  blood. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  the  National  Argentine  Theater 
found  me  but  poorly  prepared  for  what  I  was  about  to  see. 
Argentinians  themselves  had  predicted  that  I  was  certain 
to  be  bored  as  well  as  disgusted.  On  the  contrary,  I  was 
neither.  The  plays  and  actors  seemed  to  me  to  be  excellent, 
not  only  at  this,  but  at  all  subsequent  performances. 

The  leading  actress,  Elena  Podestd,  is  beautiful  in  person 
and  possessed  of  faultless  diction.  Her  manner  is  restrained 
and  correct,  recalling  decidedly  Rosario  Pino,  while,  like  her, 
she  has  the  faculty  of  expressing  profound  emotion  with 
singular  simplicity  of  means.  The  Podestds  are  a  prolific 
dynasty  of  actors  who  form  the  basis  of  the  companies  at  the 
two  national  theaters.  Others  of  the  family  distinguished 
themselves  in  various  r61es.  Sr.  Ducasse,  the  juvenile,  must 


APPENDIX    C  147 

be  singled  out  for  praise,  as  must  also  Sr.  Bataglia,  who  acts 
a  gringo  part  in  the  play  La  Rendicion  to  such  perfection  that 
his  performance  may  well  be  compared  with  the  work  of  the 
most  celebrated  actors.  The  name  of  the  character  actress 
has  escaped  me,  but  she  is  an  excellent  artist — a  Spaniard, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken.  The  mise-en-scene,  management,  and 
grouping  of  the  characters  afford  proof  of  most  skilful  stage 
direction,  together  with  admirable  training  upon  the  part 
of  the  actors. 

While  the  national  Argentine  drama  may  still  be  regarded 
by  some  with  a  patronizing  eye,  it  is  feared  by  the  professional 
importers  of  conventional  theatrical  wares  long  since  more 
or  less  worn  out  as  a  dangerous  menace  in  the  future.  To  the 
unprejudiced  observer  who  is  at  liberty  to  discriminate  and 
to  applaud  honest  effort  in  accord  with  its  deserts  it  appears 
to  be  a  sincere  and  artistic  beginning  which  is  sure  to  bring 
to  this  great  people  a  future  day  of  glory.  If  the  nation 
were  not  admirable  in  many  things  it  would  certainly  be  so 
in  this: — every  pretentious  building  throughout  the  land  is 
one  dedicated  to  education.  When  a  people  provides  for 
education  with  such  devotion  we  may  well  declare,  in  the 
words  of  the  evangelist,  "The  rest  shall  be  added  unto  you." 


APPENDIX   D 

THE  NATIVE  Music 

At  the  time  Mr.  Fassett  was  translating  the  songs  in 
Santos  Vega  he  told  me  that  he  had  discovered  that  they 
could  be  sung  to  some  gaucho  music  which  he  had  on  his 
phonograph.  This  interested  me,  and  I  investigated  the 
matter,  with  the  result  that  I  am  able  to  give  here  a  list  of 
Creole  songs  and  dances  which  are  included  in  the  Columbia 
and  the  Victor  catalogues.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  reader 
who  has  a  phonograph  will  find  these  records  of  service  in 
appreciating  the  native  music  of  the  Argentine,  which  has 
been  confined  to  the  tango  with  us  so  far. 

Columbia  Graphophone  Victor  Talking  Machine 

Company  Company 

A  688  63890  62774         65605 

A  693  62937  65866         62156 

T831  63693  62154         67604 

T  769  62195  62939 

T  870  62182  62152 

This  list  covers  a  fairly  wide  range  of  selections,  but  it 
by  no  means  exhausts  the  records  of  native  music  which 
are  procurable.  It  is  at  once  an  easy  and  a  pleasant  method 
of  becoming  familiar  with  the  songs  and  dances  of  the  pampas 
which  play  so  pronounced  a  part  in  the  Dramas  Criollos. — ED. 


TIIE    END 


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